


you and you are sure together

by benzos



Series: no sooner loved [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (to as the winter to foul weather), Alcohol use typical of college students, Alternate Universe - College/University, Astrology, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Prequel, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, The flu, Trans Character, Truth or Dare, ridiculous babies in love, the opposite of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzos/pseuds/benzos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry to bother you twice in one day,” Harry says, settling on Louis’ beanbag—thankfully clear of dirty socks, as Louis had become keenly aware of his room’s being a tip after Harry’s stumbling departure and had gone on one of his intermittent tidying sprees right after he’d left, which consist mostly of shoving clothes into the hamper and papers into his rucksack or one of his desk drawers. Louis’ never been all that good with cleaning. He’d skipped lunch (which is absolutely <i>not</i> a problem) so thankfully all the dishes are clean, including the mug he’s designated for his residents in need of tea during a crisis.</p><p>Which—right, Harry’s here. Again.</p><p>-<br/>AU. The first day of fall term, Louis hits one of his residents in the face with a door. Later that day, said resident seeks refuge after a fight with his roommate.</p><p>It becomes a thing.</p><p>And then it becomes something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my fic _as the winter to foul weather_ feat. babies in love and (I think) significantly less misery. But, like, I am who I am (lunar Scorpio) so there's some angst. A lot of fluff to balance it out, though. And self-indulgent astrology talk. (It's Harry's Aquarius tattoo's fault). 
> 
> This fic is already complete and will update every couple of days so as to enable my nitpicking. 
> 
> Warning for graphic descriptions of eating disordered behaviors, including reactive eating and purging. If you require a version with those sections highlighted/otherwise marked off, please feel free to drop me a line! Happy to make this accessible however I can. I will also warn in chapter notes for such scenes.
> 
> If you're inclined, you can come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://churchrat.tumblr.com). [Here is a post for this fic.](http://churchrat.tumblr.com/post/141876286820/fic-you-and-you-are-sure-together-ch-15)
> 
> Huge thanks to [Luce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rippedgloves), [Lucy](http://monasleaza.tumblr.com), [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov), [Cara](http://recoveringzarrie.tumblr.com), and [Annie](http://chamcafeahorrible.tumblr.com) for encouragement, advice, proofreading, screaming, and putting up with me. You are all gems and I wouldn't finish anything without you.

Fall term begins with Louis sleeping thirty minutes past his alarm and knocking a half-empty paper cup of cold tea off the corner of his desk and onto his brand new copy of _A Glossary of Literary Terms_.

He curses and picks it up, gaze whirling around the room for something that’ll help him salvage the enormously heavy and enormously expensive textbook he’d gotten on loan from the bookstore just the day previous. There’s a towel on the floor from his shower last night, only a little damp, and he wraps it around the book and decides that’s all he can do for now. Maybe he’ll borrow Zayn’s hair dryer later.

His lecture’s in ten minutes, and the hall is a five-minute walk away, and he's got to piss. The hoodie he’d slept in will have to do. He shoves a beanie over his hair, wriggles into the first pair of jeans he can find—a little tight, he notices with a wince—and crams his phone and keys into a pocket. He slings his backpack over his shoulder as he dashes down the hall toward the loo. He puts rather a lot of his weight into shouldering open the door to the communal bathroom, poised to take the quickest whizz of his life; he's got seven and a half minutes now.

Instead, the door stops halfway and bounces back toward him, and he hears something between a squeak and a shout, followed by a muffled thud. When he peeks through the doorframe, he’s met with a— _curlyganglybeautiful_ —boy, on the floor on one elbow with the other hand cupped over his nose.

Louis’ aware he’s gaping, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He’s forgotten the word for apologies. It’s just not in his brain. He should be apologizing.

The boy on the floor speaks first, pinched and nasal. “Oops.”

Louis still can’t remember the word. All that comes out is, “Hi.”

The corners of the boy’s eyes crinkle a bit, although Louis can’t see his mouth, which is covered by his ( _huge, huge_ ) hand. “Hi,” he says, and takes his hand away. It’s red— oh god—

“I am so, so sorry,” Louis babbles, dropping his backpack and settling on his knees beside the boy. “Do you—or, hang on, I have tissues, don’t tilt your head back, just pinch, I’ll—I’m so sorry, Christ.”

“It’s okay,” the boy says thickly, pinching his nose with rust-stained, spidery fingers and managing to look cute despite it. “I’m Harry.”

“Louis. Hang on—I don’t think I saw you during move-in? Here, keep a hold on that.”

“’m new.”

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry, I was getting—you know what, come into my room, I think there’s a first aid kit somewhere. Or, wait, there’s probably one in here, since we're in the loo. No, hang on. Come in, sit down.” He leads Harry by the arm down the short corridor that leads to his single; his gait is strange but not in a bad way. 

“I can go to the health centre, it’s alright, you were in a hurry—“

Louis waves a hand. “Oi, none of that. Keep pinching your nose. I’m going to—ok, you sit down there, keep holding it, here’s some tissues if you’d like, I’m going to go find some ice, why don’t I have ice, honestly—“ That’s like, basic health emergency preparedness. Preparedness is his job, why on earth doesn’t he have ice on hand?

“’s alright, really,” Harry says—he’s fucking smiling even though half of his face is covered in blood, and combined with his weirdly intense stare it sort of makes him look like a cannibal and Louis should not be thinking _that wouldn’t even bother me_ , what the fuck. “Get them all the time.”

“Not from someone slamming a door in your face, though.” Louis’ sure the face he’s pulling is incredibly off-putting, scrunched and odd.

Harry doesn’t seem at all perturbed; his smile widens. “Slamming myself, though. ‘m clumsy.” He’s still bleeding quite profusely, which Louis knows because he can’t seem to stop staring at Harry’s face, rather than making himself useful in any way. He should get on that.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m going to go get ice, just—don’t, like, stand right behind the door when I come back.” He winces. “Sorry, that was mean. I’m being a twat. Fuck. Right, ice.”

He finds a cold pack in the basement communal kitchen and takes the stairs two at a time on the way back up, winding himself. He’s panting embarrassingly by the time he gets back to his room—he used to be fit, what the fuck—and tries to compose himself for a moment before he opens the door. Carefully.

Harry’s got most of the blood off his face and his grin is distinctly less serial killer when Louis comes in. He lets go of his nose, looking at it cross-eyed and a little hesitant. It’s stopped bleeding, it seems, and Louis breathes out a little sigh of relief.

“Hi,” Harry says, and oh, he has a really nice voice, deep and slow and somehow musical and monotone at the same time.

“I got ice,” Louis says, gesturing toward the cold pack and feeling like a bit of an idiot.

“I see,” says Harry. “Thanks for that.” His grin gets even wider. God, the mouth on him. “ Ice to meet you.”

Louis starts laughing so hard he nearly doubles over, clutching the cold pack hard against his chest—his heart hasn’t gotten a chance to calm down, jumping about from one emotion to the next. “Oh my god. Oh my god, you did not.”

“I did,” Harry says. “Love a good pun, me.”

“Can’t say I feel the same.” Louis wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. It’s been a stressful morning. He gets leaky when he’s stressed. “I myself go for much more high-brow humor, not children’s joke books. Although your delivery’s quite good, I’ll give you that. Quite morbid.”

“Hey,” Harry says, and flails a little when Louis tosses him the cold pack, catching it in the crook of his elbow. Clumsy. Right. “Children’s joke books are good. And there are adult ones, as well.”

“Oh? D’you own some, then?”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “I find knock knock jokes are a good ice-breaker.” He squeezes the cold pack hard and then looks at it, a shade despondent. “That would’ve been funnier if I had some actual ice. To break, you know.”

“Terribly sorry for ruining your pun. Also, knock knock jokes are, like, the lowest form of humor, you know, first impressions are very important. You wouldn’t want to meet someone and have them think you’re the kind of knob who makes knock knock jokes.” Why can’t Louis stop babbling? Christ.

“Or hits people in the face with doors,” Harry deadpans, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Fair point,” Louis says; he flushes, briefly, with shame again. “How’s the nose feeling?”

“Alright.” Harry shrugs. “Physically I’m fine. Emotionally I’m bruised.” There’s something about the way he drags out the vowels in bruised that makes the hairs on the back of Louis’ neck prickle. He’s still fucking smiling, though, and he doesn’t sound at all upset, which is. Something.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, and feels the corners of his mouth start to quirk up. “How may I assist in your recovery?”

“Knock knock.”

“Really?”

Harry nods. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Dishes.”

“Dishes who?”

“Dishes a nice place you got here.”

It takes a split second to process, and then groans again, but he’s laughing, and Harry is too.

“That was terrible,” Louis says, once he’s steadied his breathing. “Truly horrendous. I’m offended on your behalf, to be quite honest with you.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says. “I’ve got loads. You’ll warm up to them.” He flushes a little, and seems nervous all of a sudden. “That is. I didn’t mean to say, like, I was going to annoy you. I should—I should get out of your hair, I’m sorry, I’ve got a lecture soon.” He runs a hand through his hair and mucks it up. Louis kind of wants to fix his fringe, but that is definitely inappropriate.

Clenching his hands into fists at his sides to avoid temptation, he smiles and says, “You’re not a bother. Sorry I hit you with a door. My door’s open—cautiously, from now on, mind you—if you need anything. Do you need anything else?”

“Nope.” Harry beams. “I'm grand.”

He almost trips over a box of books Louis’ left in the middle of the floor as he’s leaving, but he seems to take it in stride. Maybe he really is just incredibly clumsy.

Once Harry’s gone, Louis checks the time on his phone—far too late for him to try and use the _I got lost_ excuse; he’ll just skip the lecture. He hopes it’s not foreshadowing.

*

Louis’ got an afternoon dramaturgy workshop that he shows up for not just on time but actually early, before the professor’s even there. He’s a bit nervous, jittery in an inability to stop bouncing his leg or shifting his weight back and forth; this professor has a reputation for being amazing but tough as nails. Tougher. Louis’ hoping to make a good first impression. He excels at first impressions—well, he excels at first impressions when he remembers not to babble, or, apparently, slam doors in people’s faces.

Elliott and Christina both wave at him as they come into the blackbox and settle near the top of the risers. Louis will probably migrate back there soon, but he’s learned that sitting at the back on the first day doesn’t win him any points when he’s already got trouble turning things in on time and keeping his mouth shut at the appropriate moments. He bounces his leg and checks his notifications continuously while others shuffle in, all at least somewhat familiar. He wishes Eleanor or Zayn were here, too, but it’s just him with the Drama concentration. He’s pretty sure one of them is in his comparative lit lecture, anyway. Maybe both.

Dr. Pryor’s brisk arrival is at 3:00pm sharp, and the slam of the door behind her startles Louis a bit.

“Right,” she says. “Down to business. I’m sorry for the delay, I normally like to arrive at least ten minutes before the beginning of class, but I was in a meeting that ran late.”

She passes around copies of the syllabus, stressing the zero-tolerance policy on lateness—“I lock the door to the theatre five minutes past three,”—and absences. Louis winces a little. The syllabus looks fantastic, though, and he’s actually excited about most of the assignments it describes. He likes English alright, too, but there’s nothing like being in the theatre and doing theatre work.

“Any questions?” she asks. It doesn’t sound quite genuine, and he suppresses a snort behind his hand.

“Right. If there aren’t any, we’ll get straight to it. I need a volunteer.” Her eyes scan the room behind blue-framed glasses. “You, young lady.” She’s looking in Louis’ direction, and he cranes his neck to see who’s sitting behind him. There’s no one, though, and his heart sinks into his gut, his whole body suddenly tense and shivering. He’d sent out an email ahead of term specifically to avoid this, but he absolutely doesn’t want to draw more attention to himself or give off the impression that he can’t listen, so he swallows and stands up on slightly unsteady legs. A quick glance to the back of the room shows Elliott and Christina talking behind their hands. Christina makes eye contact with him, brows furrowed. She gets her hand halfway up in the air, mouth open, and Louis frantically shakes his head, waving a hand in what he hopes says _It’s no big deal, haha, can you believe it? Wild!_

He feels a tap on his shoulder and flinches, spinning around to meet Dr. Pryor’s hard gaze. “Sorry,” he says automatically. “Didn’t hear what you said, professor.”

“Name?” she says, sounding a little less annoyed but still stern. He wills down the way his heart’s pounding and his skin prickles like there are fire ants crawling about under his clothes and he feels like everybody’s looking at him, which they are, but not in the way he usually soaks up. _Stop it,_ he scolds himself. _Act normal. You’re fine. Quit being so sensitive._

“Er, Tomlinson.” He coughs and pushes his voice into his chest, down as far as he can before it gets truly uncomfortable. “Louis.”

Dr. Pryor quirks an eyebrow and looks him up and down once. He reflexively crosses his arms over his chest. The abrupt panic has mostly passed, but he feels a little ill, unsteady, and doesn’t like the scrutiny. Thankfully, it’s over quickly; he’s not even quite sure what the exercise they’re doing is, but he seems to make it through without any major fuck-ups.

The rest of the workshop passes in mostly the same fashion; he’s a bit spacey, reacting to things a beat too slow and flushing whenever he does. He keeps forgetting which group he’s supposed to be in—they’re in bunches of four and have each been given a script—but cracks jokes and shares his ideas (which are good, he reminds himself) and only babbles a little, wincing once or twice when he accidentally cuts someone off. He just can’t always control when or how his words come out.

He’s a little petrified, when Dr. Pryor dismisses them, that she’s going to keep him after—he hates that conversation, in person especially, he’d much rather do it over email—but she doesn’t, so he makes his way back to his room and falls asleep whilst watching Bake-Off.

*

He jolts awake at a knock on the door, disoriented by how dark the room is. It’s eight, according to his phone. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long, and curses himself, flicking the lights on and rubbing at his eyes. He can only hope his hair is sort of cooperating, just in case— _stop_ , he tells himself, and crosses toward the entry.

“I had a fight with my roommate,” Harry says, when Louis opens the door (slowly and carefully). It’s only been twelve hours. Harry looks upset, cheeks blotchy and the skin around his eyes raw like he’s been rubbing at it. “Er. The, ehm, the student handbook, like, that they gave us at move-in, it said I should um. Talk to my resident advisor. Or, I forget if that’s the right word. But, um, I think that’s you? Like, that’s um. What your door says. I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I did, didn’t I?” He’s chewing on his lip and curling and uncurling a lock of hair around one of his fingers. He looks sort of like a baby deer.  Bambi, Louis almost calls him, but restrains himself.

“Well you can’t trust the door, as you well know,” Louis says. “But yes, that’s what I should have said when I said it was open. Er, I mean, that’s me, roommate conflicts are, in fact, my purview. Come in, young Harold, tell me all about it.” He’s not willing to examine why his heart is pounding, but the adrenaline surge has woken him right up.

“I’m sorry to bother you twice in one day,” Harry says, settling on Louis’ beanbag—thankfully clear of dirty socks, as Louis had become keenly aware of his room’s being a tip after Harry’s stumbling departure and had gone on one of his intermittent tidying sprees right after he’d left, which consist mostly of shoving clothes into the hamper and papers into his rucksack or one of his desk drawers. Louis’ never been all that good with cleaning. He’d skipped lunch (which is absolutely not a problem) so thankfully all the dishes are clean, including the mug he’s designated for his residents in need of tea during a crisis.

Which—right, Harry’s here. Again. Twice in one day. He’s even more infuriatingly cute without a bloody nose, although there’s a hint of a purple bruise across the bridge that Louis feels a sharp twang of guilt when he sees. It sort of matches the purple of his jumper and his odd socks, which are somehow both purple despite not matching. His hair looks soft. Maybe like small animals could make a nest in it. Not in the disgusting way, just like. Small animals are probably attracted to Harry, what with him being all Disney Princess-like.

 _Shut up_ , Louis tells himself. _You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop perving on your residents, who are either physically or emotionally vulnerable, and also stop comparing people to Disney Princesses. Forever._

“D’you want tea?” he asks, after he realizes he’s been staring and Harry still looks upset. “My mum always makes me a cuppa when I’m sad. Or I could tell you some knock knock jokes. Or, like, listen to yours. I promise not to be mean. Pinky swear.” He holds up a hooked digit in offering, hoping to get a smile out of Harry, but he doesn’t, to his dismay; he doesn’t like not being able to make people laugh.

“’m not sad,” Harry mumbles. “Sorry, like, it’s stupid. I don’t know why I came.”

“Hey now,” Louis says. “None of that. ‘s why they pay me. Not that, like, I’m thinking of you as like, a source of income, ‘cos technically I get paid regardless, although if you lodged a complaint I might get sacked. So.” He crosses his eyes and puffs out his cheeks on impulse and curses Harry’s curls and his own stupid brain.

Harry laughs, then, though, big and loud, throwing his head back. “You’re funny,” he says after a moment, long and slow like he’s giving thought to how each of the syllables comes out. “I was sort of worried, like, I wouldn’t get along with anyone in my hall, especially ‘cos I got here sort of late, and, like, Rory and I got like, really close at first, which is why I moved into his room with the mix-up and all, which I didn’t tell you about, they accidentally put me in a single that belonged to a third year and then he showed up and Rory had the extra bed so it worked out, only then he was Skyping with his mum whilst I was trying to study, and like, I call my mum a lot as well, but he was being really loud and we agreed that after eight we would be quiet if the other one needed to work, unless we were like, doing something together, and we were supposed to watch a film tonight only now he’s angry at me but he’s the one who isn’t doing what we agreed on.”

Louis blinks. He’d had the urge to interrupt Harry several times during his slow, rambling account of his tiff with his roommate, whom Louis hadn’t liked at all any of the times they’d spoken. Something squirrelly about that one; bad hair, too. “You’ve drawn up a roommate agreement, then?”

Harry’s brows furrow, a little crease appearing between them. “No, like, we talked about like, er, stuff, but I don’t know. Maybe?”

Louis sighs. “It’s policy to have all roommates write and sign a roommate agreement. Basically putting whatever you talked about into writing, in case your roommate is being twattish, as yours apparently is. Why’s he bothering his mum past nine, anyway? Honestly.”

“Dunno,” Harry says. “Think he’s homesick.” His pink, wide mouth turns down a bit at the corners. Louis has the sudden urge to jump up on him and squeeze him tight until he laughs.

He shuffles a little closer to Harry instead, watching warily to check that it’s okay. He doesn’t touch him, even though he wants to. Let no one say he can’t occasionally ignore his stupid impulses.

“Still. ‘s impolite, that. Anyway, I s’pose since you were in a single during freshers week no one would’ve told you about all that. No use now, though, is it, since he’s clearly got his mind set on being a twat. A homesick twat, but a twat nonetheless.”  

Harry’s frown deepens a bit. “’m homesick, too.”

It makes Louis’ heart twinge. Harry’s smile is so bright. He wants to see it, even though he’s exhausted and he’s got to get the notes from the lecture he’d missed this morning. That’s all less important than establishing a solid relationship with his residents, he reasons. _Especially the adorable curly ones with dimples and a nice little body_ , his brain supplies. Another part of his mind starts singing _Kiss the Girl_ , which is just rude. Louis’ brain is incredibly unhelpful.

“It’s alright, it’s normal to feel that way,” he says, swallowing and willing his heart to calm down a little bit and his hands to stop twitching towards Harry, wanting to hold and soothe. “I get homesick all the time. Not so bad as my first term, though. You’ll be alright.”

Harry’s lip wobbles. “But what if Rory hates me, he’s my best friend here and, like, I guess I can make different friends, like, but I don’t like people not liking me?” His frown is threatening to veer into a full-on pout. Louis’ sort of helplessly endeared by it, even as he’s trying to take it seriously and be professional. “I should go back and apologize.”

“How’s about instead of doing that,” Louis starts, “you hang about here for a bit and give him some time to finish talking to his mum, cool off, realize he was being an arse, and figure out how to appropriately grovel. We can watch a film, if you like. I’ve got Netflix. Or I can illegally download something, although I s’pose that’s setting a bad example for you young impressionable types.”

Harry peers up at him through his eyelashes. His color’s a bit better, not so flushed. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be, like, bothering you.”

Louis waves a hand. “Mate, I hit you in the face with a door earlier. Least I can do. Plus, you’re,” Louis falters for a moment, his brain shouting _beautiful amazing brilliant cute I’d really like to kiss you_ , before he settles on, “Er, like. A good lad. Shit, that was stupid. I just meant, like, it’s. I like talking to you. You aren’t a bother. The opposite of a bother. Is there a word for that? An un-bother. That’s you.”

Harry’s whole face brightens. It’s kind of like looking into the sun, which Louis feels silly for thinking the moment he’s thought it. “I like talking to you too.”

“As well you should, Curly,” Louis says, and gives in to the urge to ruffle Harry’s hair in what he hopes is a totally appropriate and not weird way; Harry leans into the contact and hums when he scratches a little at his scalp, tentative. Louis leaves his hand there. “I’m a delight. I have it on excellent authority.”

“Hmmm,” Harry says. “Yeah. You’re my favorite person I’ve met here.”

Jesus Christ, who says things like that? Louis’ heart thuds in his ears. _I really really really want to kiss you_ , he thinks, quickly followed by _what the fuck?_ He can’t bring himself to untangle his fingers from Harry’s hair, though. He’s clearly just as tactile as Louis. Maybe more. Louis’ just doing his job, he reasons.

“Thanks for the compliment, Harold,” Louis says in what he hopes is a casual tone that does not at all belie his desire to push Harry up against a wall and snog him senseless. “How about that film, then?”

“M’ name’s not Harold,” Harry says. “Just Harry.”

“Okay, just Harry, ” Louis says in his best (rather poor) imitation of Hagrid. Harry gets the joke, though, and barks out a laugh that makes Louis continue: “Yer a wizard, Harry,” and Harry keeps laughing, gasping a little. Emboldened, Louis pitches his voice up past where he normally would and tries to summon 11-year-old Emma Watson. “Stop, stop, stop. You’re going to take someone’s eye out. Besides, you’re saying it wrong. It’s levi-OH-sa, not levio-SAH.”

“Stop,” Harry wheezes, visibly trying to collect himself. It hadn’t been that funny; Louis is perplexed. His face deadpan (but the corner of his eye twitching, just a bit), Harry leans a little ways in and asks Louis, “Did you survive Avada Kedavra?”

He feels his face scrunch in confusion. “What?”

“Cause you’re drop dead gorgeous,” Harry says, a wide smile making his dimples pop.

Louis can’t stop giggling, and he’s sure the face he’s making is incredibly weird. “I cannot believe you just used a Harry Potter chat-up line on me,” he manages, trying to sound imperious and disapproving; the giggles kind of undermine him.

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “Did it work?”

Louis flushes. It might’ve, if he’s honest. “Nah. Wasn’t even a good one, really. Better luck next time, Harold.”

Harry’s grin doesn’t falter a bit. “Have you heard of Platform 9 ¾? Because I know something else with the same measurements.”

“Oh my god,” Louis groans. “You are something else. I dunno what, though, so don’t take that as a compliment.”

“I’ve got more. I looked them up, once, wrote them in my notebook.”

“Why on earth would you do something like that?”

“I was trying to get this girl to go out with me.” The way Louis’ whole body feels like it deflates when he hears _girl_ is… stupid. Ridiculous. “She was, like, really into Harry Potter. Like. I didn’t realize just how much until we were going out.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Oh?” It’s cool. He’s fine. Harry likes girls and that’s fine. He’s not reeling at all from his sudden shift in mood. He’s cool. Cool like a cucumber.

Harry doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. “Yeah. Got a bit weird when she wanted me to call her Ginny.”

Louis blinks. “You’re having me on.”

“Nope,” Harry says, but the pop of his right dimple betrays him. “Okay, yeah. She didn’t go out with me at all. I did write down the chat-up lines, though.”

“Right,” Louis says, keeping his tone light, “what say we watch the Philosopher’s Stone with the bootleg Chinese subtitles?”

*

Harry ends up staying past three. They watch two Harry Potter films and talk over them almost the whole time. It’s—for some reason, it’s never awkward, never forced. Harry matches Louis tit for tat even if he does speak slowly and have a posh boy accent, and they don’t run out of things to talk about, so Louis doesn’t really descend into his own head and start obsessing about…things. Harry’s doing a law course. He sort of wants to switch to Sociology, or English, but it’s probably a bit late, now . He’s from Cheshire (of course he is). He’s eighteen ( nineteen in February ) which makes Louis feel a bit guiltier for thinking things like _I want to marry you and raise kids with you_ because Harry’s eighteen and just gotten to uni and interested in girls and Louis is kind of a creep. He’s also technically responsible for Harry’s, like, wellbeing. _Shut up,_ he tells himself. _You’re making this weird._

It’s—it’s not, though, is the thing. It’s not weird at all. Louis can’t even bring himself to obsess over what that means, too sleepy and content and warm.

Once Harry falls asleep with his head on Louis’ shoulder, though, Louis spends a solid five minutes debating whether or not to wake him up and take him back to his room or stay here, sleep in the same bed (the beanbag really, really isn’t good for sleeping—he ought to get an air mattress for such situations, if he needs to take in a resident for the night) or if that would be the thing that does make it weird. Harry’d been touchy all night, but sleeping all cuddled up with someone seems like a line, especially when you’ve known them less than twenty-four hours. He really wants to stay, though, likes the warm weight of Harry’s body and his soft snores and the smell of his hair.

 _Stop it,_ he scolds his brain, _you’re being ridiculous._

He nudges Harry with the elbow that’s not trapped under his large sleeping body. “Harry. Harold. Hey, wake up.”

Harry snores on and curls even further into Louis. He smells like apples and the pot noodle he’d insisted on making for the both of them even though Louis can handle boiling water, thank you very much (nevermind that he boils his water in the microwave), and something unidentifiable and warm that says _boy_. Louis contemplates his next move for a moment before deciding _fuck it_ and pops his pinky finger into his mouth before shoving it into Harry’s ear.

He catches an elbow to the chest for his trouble, and it fucking hurts, but Harry’s bewildered, sleepy face is kind of adorable, and Louis did bring it on himself. Sort of. It would’ve been stupid to fall asleep with this boy in his bed, he reasons. Just doing what he had to do, even if he wants to say something like, _Why don’t you move into my room and sleep in my bed forever?_

“Hnnn?” Harry asks, his eyes drooping again. “Whassa—hmm, no, five more, I need to—the—biscuits…they need me.”

Louis starts giggling despite the late hour and his chest still hurting where Harry’d elbowed him. “C’mon, Curly, rise and shine. Need to sleep here.” Another groan. “Harry. Harold. C’mon.”

He seems to come to a bit. “Sorry,” he says, smacking his lips and bringing a hand up to knuckle at his eyes. “Didn’t mean to like, fall asleep on you.”

“’s alright.”

“Thanks. Really.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Harry shuffles about for a minute, making sure he has his phone and keys and thanking Louis at least six more times. The sheets are still warm when Louis climbs back into bed and sleeps soundly until his alarm goes off the next morning—at the right time, mind.

*

Both Zayn and Eleanor are in his comparative lit lecture on Wednesdays, which is fantastic. He catches up on both their summers—he’d seen their posts on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook and the like, but it's nice to talk in person—and sits between the two of them. It’s a good class. He gets a little nervous during attendance, but his lecturer gets his name right, and he’s able to take semi-decent notes. Better than Zayn’s, at any rate, which are truly illegible and include copious doodles, ranging from intricate mandalas to stick figures and pot leaves.

He and Zayn end up spending the last ten or so minutes playing noughts and crosses, but that’s to be expected. You’re not supposed to use the full period on the first day, and Louis already knows what books they’re reading, they’d been on the list. Eleanor makes a show of rolling her eyes and tutting at them, but she’s been checking her phone under the chair.

*

After class on Friday, Zayn and Louis go down together to the Union. Liam’s promised to join later—something about Calculus coursework and not falling behind—and is, apparently, bringing Danielle. So that’s on again. Louis is slightly offended Liam hadn’t told him, but he seems happy, if a bit nervous. He keeps running a palm over his newly-buzzed hair, which Louis doesn’t blame him for. It feels cool. Louis spent a good hour petting it earlier in the week. And at least ten times before that.

Liam’s acting awkward, though, and after their first round, during which he keeps glancing nervously at his and Danielle’s not-quite-touching hands, Louis declares that it’s time to move this party somewhere else and really get it started, waggling his eyebrows at Liam and sharing a knowing look with Zayn. Eleanor’s come with Danielle, too. Huh. Presumably Liam hadn’t been up to just asking her, or else she’s moral support for Danielle. Or she just wants to be here—she is his friend, after all, and will probably help him figure out what’s going on between Liam and Danielle, which is a large part of why they’re friends. Incorrigible gossips, the both of them. Nothing to be done for it.

The five of them end up in the meditation/prayer room on the top floor of the Union, which Louis feels bad about, but it’s not as if they’re the first to use the space for semi-illicit purposes, either. There’s loads of cushions and it smells nice and there’s a little zen garden thing with a rake that Louis finds very calming. Besides, who’s meditating on a Friday night?

Eleanor’s brought tequila and shot glasses. Eleanor’s his favorite.

“Alright then, lads,” he says, rubbing his hands together and raising his eyebrows at Eleanor’s glare. “Oh, right. Liam’s not a lad yet. It’s a term of endearment, El, it’s not about gender. Not sure about Danielle yet, but if you vouch for her, I trust your judgment.”

“Hey,” Liam says.

“Shhhh,” Louis says, and crawls over to ruffle his hair. “You’ll get there yet, Leemo.”

Zayn’s pouring shots. “Are you done yet, then?”

“Give me that.” Eleanor snatches the bottle away. “You’re always so stingy, those glasses are halfway full.”

“I’m pacing, ” Zayn argues. “You know how Lou is.”

“How very dare you, Zayn.” He’s at least as bad.

“Your dares are fucking ridiculous, mate.”

“He’s right,” squeaks Liam, giving a little nervous chuckle and flitting his eyes toward Danielle, who’s laughing. “Last term you dared me to climb up on the roof of the Union in only my pants.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I would do,” Louis lies. After a beat, he says, “Okay, maybe I did, but at least I didn’t ask you to do it starkers or anything. Besides, it was June. It was plenty warm enough. Not my fault you took the shot instead.”

“Which made him puke,” Zayn adds, “all over his bed.”

“Not my fault either,” Louis says genially. Eleanor’s finished pouring the shots. Excellent. “Alright, everyone take your glasses. Danielle, you can go first.”

“Um,” she says. “Okay. Er. Liam, truth or dare.”

Liam blushes. “Dare,” he says, and Louis feels very proud. Good on him. Being brave.

“Okay. I dare you to, um…” She glances around the room. Eleanor whispers in her ear, and she grins. “I dare you to sing a song.”

“What kind of song?” Louis presses. “Specificity is vital. Liam here loves to sing, don’t you?” He winks. Liam glares at him. “Oooh, how about Cry Me A River?”

“Louis—“

“Has Liam never told you about his X-Factor audition? I think I have the tape somewhere. It’s very good, he got three yes’s.”

“Louis, I swear to god.”

“Go on.” Zayn nudges him in the side.

Liam chews on his lip for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth between Danielle, Louis, and the floor. Finally, he picks up his shot glass and knocks it back, wincing. “Maybe later,” he says. He’s still bright red.

There’s a collective groan. “Now now,” Louis says. “Liam’s just being a chicken, and that’s fine. Li, your turn.”

He gets a glare that would be withering if it weren’t coming from someone with the complexion of a lobster. “I dare you to lick the window.”

“You didn’t ask if I wanted truth or dare!”

Liam huffs. “Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Louis says, just to be a pill. There’s very little Liam doesn’t know about him, after all. And he doesn’t fancy getting the flu.

Liam looks quite put out by his choice. It takes him a minute to come up with something. “Um…er…tell about your first kiss?”

Louis scoffs. “Leemo. You know that already.”

“But we don’t,” Eleanor cuts in. “Come on, Lou, I wanna hear.”

Zayn giggles. “Yeah, c’mon.”

Louis sighs and ignores the way his heartbeat’s picked up, just a bit. “Year eleven. Hannah Walker.”

“Year eleven?” Zayn sounds incredulous. “No way, mate, you’re having us on. You can’t lie. If you lie you have to drink. Liam, is he lying?”

There’s a moment of eye contact between Louis and Liam that passes too quickly. “Ehm,” Liam says. “Well…” _Please shut up please shut up please shut up—_

“Oh,” says a deep voice from the doorway, startling everyone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Harry looks around the room with his brows furrowed, taking in the shot glasses and tequila bottle, and then, finally, Louis. He brightens, just a little. At least Louis hopes so. He’s looking a little small and cold. “Hi, Louis.”

“Hi Harry.”

“Sorry, er, is this the, ehm, meditation room? I thought it was, sorry. I was just going to, er. Meditate.”

“It is,” Louis says, guilty. “So sorry, we’ll clear out of here. No one ever uses it, I’m so sorry.”

Harry smiles at him. He doesn’t look upset—just a little frazzled. Maybe why he was trying to meditate. Louis’ an awful person. “It’s no worries,” he says. “I don’t want to interrupt your, er…” He makes an odd, abortive hand gesture. “…ritual? I assume this is a religious service.” He’s full-on grinning now. “Obviously a responsible employee of this institution wouldn’t be misusing its, er, facilities.”

“Never,” Louis agrees. “Thanks, Harold, for your faith in me. Everyone, this is Harold.”

“It’s Harry,” Harry says. “Just Harry.” He waves. “Hi everyone.” He’s terrifyingly, adorably earnest.

“Right, whatever you say. Zayn, Liam, Danielle, Eleanor.” He counts them off. “Members of the church of, er…”

“Jose Cuervo,” Eleanor supplies.

“Yes, thank you El. D’you want to join us? Or, really, we can clear out if you need to meditate, or like, whatever, if you need space.”

“Company would actually be nice,” Harry says, slowly, and ducks his head, his hair covering part of his face. The bit that’s visible is a little pink, blotchy. “I actually, er, stopped by your room, but you weren’t in, so. Not that, like, I’m upset with you for having a life, on a Friday night.”

“Oh. Fantastic, then.” Louis doesn’t ask what brought Harry looking for him—he doesn’t like to put people on the spot in public, at least not in any serious way, unlike _some people_. “Come, pull up a cushion. We’re just playing a spot of Truth or Dare.”

Harry giggles, rocking back and forth on his feet. “That’s quite teenage, isn’t it?”

“Hush, you.”

“Hi Harry,” Eleanor says, followed by Danielle, Liam, and Zayn at once. Harry waves again.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, smiling a little bashfully. Bless him. Louis has another sudden urge to kiss his face off. It’s extremely inappropriate, especially with how Harry looks like he can’t believe that they want him here. “I hope I’m not, er, intruding, or a bother.” He folds his gangly limbs over each other and gives a little oof as he falls a couple of inches to the floor. _Baby deer._

“Nonsense,” Danielle scoffs. “Come on. It’s Louis’ turn. How d’you two know each other, by the way?”

“He’s my RA,” Harry says. Zayn giggles. Louis flicks him off. “I ran into his door with my nose.”

“Really, now?” Zayn says, his grin growing. “That’s odd.”

“Clumsy, me.” Harry shrugs. Eleanor pours him a shot and he accepts it graciously. “Cheers.” Louis can’t get over the smoothness of his voice. Or his curls. Or the fucking dimples.

“Louis.” Zayn pokes him in the side. “’s your turn, mate.”

“Oh. Right.” Louis blinks hard and does not look at Harry. “Um. Zayn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to give Liam a lap dance. To a song of your choosing. Has to be the whole song, mind.”

“Alright.” Zayn stands up and scrolls through his phone for a minute. Something beat-heavy that Louis doesn’t recognize—it could be one of his own mixes, actually, come to think of it—begins playing, tinny through the tiny speakers. Zayn’s crotch is at Liam’s eye level, and Liam looks like it might murder him any second, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. Then Zayn starts dancing.

Louis can hardly see for how hard he’s laughing, collapsing forward onto himself. It looks awkward, at any rate; Zayn’s all limbs and no rhythm.

“Please tell me someone’s filming this,” he chokes. “Please.”

“I can,” Harry offers, but he’s in the same state as Louis, which is…not odd, per se, just unusual, considering he doesn’t know Zayn or Liam or how Liam turns scarlet and babbles an excuse to leave whenever The Kiss is mentioned in front of him. He seems to be feeding off Louis’ laughter.

“I’ve got it,” Eleanor says from somewhere on his left. “Nice moves, Z.”

“Thanks,” Zayn calls back, his voice some attempt at high and breathy. Louis hears Liam squeak.

The song’s over all too soon, and Louis wipes tears from his eyes as he watches Zayn’s blurry form climb off of Liam’s lap, leaving Liam wide-eyed and beet red. He may not be breathing.

“Y’alright, there, Li?” Louis crows.

“Fine,” he says. His voice cracks. He flushes further and clears his throat. “Fine. Thank you, Zayn.”

“My pleasure.”

“Whose turn is it?” Harry asks.

“Mine,” says Zayn, and there’s a glint in his eye that’s worrying. “Louis. Truth or dare?”

Louis swallows. “Dare.”

A grin makes its way across Zayn’s face. It’s malevolent. “I dare you to kiss Harry.” Before he can add anything else, Louis darts in to peck Harry on one flushed cheek. “Hang on. You didn’t let me finish.”

“Sorry mate, dare’s over. I did it. Not my fault you were too slow.” Louis shrugs.

“Louis,” groans Eleanor, “why aren’t you being any fun? Do the dare.” Danielle murmurs her agreement. After a moment, so does Liam, looking a little guilty.

Harry isn’t looking at him. He’s gone even more pink.

“On the mouth,” Zayn says. “For a full minute. Sixty seconds. If Harry’s alright with that. Are you alright with that, Harry?”

“Er. Yeah. I mean, that’s alright. Or. Is it alright with Louis?” Harry sounds genuinely concerned.

Eleanor snorts. “Louis kisses more pretty boys than I do,” she laments. “It’s a tragedy.”

“Kissed me, didn’t you?” Louis insists. “That’s plenty of pretty boys. I count as like, five.” _God, why did you say that? You know that’s not anywhere close to true._ Louis feels his shoulders rolling forward a little, a twinge in his back, his teeth grinding.

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “That didn’t count, we were both drunk. ‘sides, I don’t think it counts if the pretty boy in question is gay, either.”

Louis might be imagining the way Harry’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He probably is. He’s also probably going to die. Not before he kills his friends, though.

“Alright, then,” he says, casual as he can be. “Let’s do this, Harold.” Alright. You can do this. Just don’t make it weird.

The carpet stings the heels of his hands as he shuffle-crawls toward Harry’s cushion. The lines of Harry’s body aren’t tense. He hasn’t curled in on himself, which mollifies the part of Louis that’s screaming _creep_ and _predator_ and _misleading_. He’s very aware of the sound of his own breath, and has to make a conscious effort to direct air flow through his nose; it won’t do to get too worked up about this. It doesn’t count, after all, he reminds himself. It doesn’t mean anything: not the way his thigh muscles are wound tight, or how his heartbeat jumps in his throat as he positions himself as close as he can be to Harry without making it weird—just enough to feel some radiant warmth from the smooth skin of his left arm. There’s a curl of black ink peeking out from the hem of his shirtsleeve. Louis wants to push it up and see, but that’s crossing a line.

He’s not ready when one of Harry’s huge hands—a little clammy, which is just a bit gross—cups his jaw, and there’s a moment where Harry’s got his eyes closed and his lips centimeters from Louis’, so close Louis strains his eyes trying to see the color, the little bit of skin Harry’s chewed off on the bottom. There are little puffs of warm air by Louis’ mouth, smelling of artificial cinnamon and there’s not enough time to process that before Harry presses a clumsy, tentative kiss to Louis’ slack mouth.

Louis’ vaguely aware of someone—Zayn, definitely, probably others too—letting out wolf whistles. He has the thought to flick them off, but one of his hands has made its way without his permission to cup around the back of Harry’s neck. Not holding, just feeling, registering warmth and fine, soft baby hairs at the nape, the slight roughness of a chain against his palm. His other arm is going numb from supporting his weight, which, annoyingly, the kiss doesn’t distract him from, just makes him more aware of his whole body: the awkward splay of his legs under him, the way one of his knees brushes Harry’s when he shifts slightly.

Harry’s lips are dry and enthusiastic; he’s a little too quick with it, not completely inexperienced, but clearly he hasn’t been taught to play it cool. Louis thinks about coaxing him to slow it down, but instead he matches the pace, tests the tip of his tongue against the seam of Harry’s mouth, breathes in the little gasp and the way Harry’s hand tightens a little painfully where he’s hooked it into Louis’ hair. It just makes it better. Harry’s mouth is open and lush. His pulse rabbits under hot skin when Louis brings his hand around to cup the side of his neck, run a thumb over the jump of his throat and the wing of his jaw, gets a little noise in return and Harry tentatively running his tongue over Louis’ bottom lip. Their hands grip tighter in turns.

When Louis ups the ante with a flash of teeth, Harry copies him, and then sighs when Louis bites longer, harder. It makes Louis think crazy things, like _I want to do so many things with you_ and _I want to kiss you forever_. He just presses his lips harder into Harry’s, hastens the urgent movement of their mouths.

“Um, lads?” They both startle back at once, and, as if mirror images, bring a hand up to touch their mouths. They hold eye contact for a long moment before Louis ducks away and looks up at Zayn, doing his best to appear calm and collected and not like he’s been ridiculously bowled over by one kiss, can’t feel his pulse pounding in every part of his body.

“Yes, my dear?” he says. His voice only sounds a little shaky.

Zayn’s smirking. “The dare was to kiss for a minute. ‘s been three. Liam’s been shitting himself.”

“Liam can piss off,” Louis mumbles. His lips are tingling. He doesn’t glance at Harry when he stands up and crosses back to his cushion. “Whose turn is it?”

“Yours,” Eleanor informs him, going to pat his shoulder before he flinches away from her hand and winces at the slightly hurt expression that passes over her face.

“Right,” he says, after a moment and a couple of deep breaths through his nose. “Liam, truth or dare?”

Liam shifts uncomfortably, looking squeamish and red in the face—poor Liam, a lap dance and two boys kissing right in front of him all in one night. He’s probably afraid Louis is going to dare him to kiss Zayn. Which he might, except that Louis doesn’t believe in repeating dares. It’s boring. “Dare?” he says, like it’s a question.

Apparently he’s more afraid of Louis bringing up embarrassing childhood and adolescent memories in front of Danielle. Excellent. “I dare you…” Louis pauses for a moment. “I dare you to let us draw whatever we want on your head with felt tip pens. Not Sharpie. I’m being magnanimous.”

“Louis—“

“You know the rules. Doodles or one shot. I have felt tips in my bag, everyone can take one. Blue one’s mine. What, Leemo? Do you not trust me?”

Liam looks like he wants to say something else, and then his face clouds over fully and clears, like he’s thought better of it. “Let’s get it over with, then. I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow, that’s the only reason I’m agreeing to this.”

“Also because you love me,” Louis prompts.

“Also because I love you,” Liam agrees. He’s a good mate. Louis’ glad to have him around. He doesn’t even draw a dick on his head—Zayn does, but Louis can’t control him, contrary to what Liam seems to think. Liam’s a good sport; he doesn’t even moan much about Louis posting a picture to Instagram. Harry asks for his username and they follow each other back, and it’s—it shouldn’t make him feel so fluttery and ridiculous.

If Louis stays up that night scrolling through and reading every (strange) caption under every (strange) picture and all the comments as well, then. He was careful about not liking anything. Nobody has to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! Decided to put the whole thing through another round of editing--huge, huge thanks to Alex for both encouragement and equally useful straight talk.  
> Trigger warning for explicit ED behaviors at the end of this chapter (self-induced vomiting, namely), in the section that begins, "Around three..." Also warning for transphobia scattered throughout; if you'd like a more detailed warning/summary of those scenes, I'd be happy to provide one.
> 
> Anyway, enough waffle! Thanks for reading, and again apologies for the delay.

After the third time in the next week that Harry shows up at Louis’ door seeking asylum, with his excuses growing less and less believable—Louis’ having a hard time buying that Harry’s allergic to air freshener or that Rory is the kind of person who frequently uses it—Louis decides enough is enough.

“Hazza,” he says, whilst they’re lying on the bed, thighs pressed together--Louis tries not to squirm, and channels his nervous energy into tugging on Harry’s hair occasionally and watching it spring back into place. A nipple poke feels like more appropriate punctuation for what he has to say next, though. “You know you don’t have to have an excuse to come ‘round, right?”

Harry squawks and giggles, shielding his chest with his big hands, which is funny when his face goes frowny a moment later and he doesn’t move them. “I guess. I mean, er, I s’pose I should’ve, like, asked, or, um. Not lied. I’m not a good liar.”

Louis murmurs his assent, and Harry pokes him in the ribs.

“Don’t be mean,” he whines, smiling. He’s still not moved his hands. “I really don’t get along with my roommate, that is true, like, he’s just rude and inconsiderate and he gets _annoyed_ with me for cleaning. His rubbish bin was attracting flies.” Harry shudders. “So, like. I dunno. I was, um, afraid you were, er, taking pity on me?” He says it like a question, a corner of his mouth tugging up. He’s blatantly compliment-fishing.

Louis kind of wants to indulge him. “Mate. I’m not that good of a person. Or very good at pretending to like people. Your tits doing alright, there?”

“Oh!” Harry flushes and drops his hands to his lap, but sounds pleased. “So you like me, then?”

 _What a little shit_ , Louis thinks, and then another part of his brain shouts _I_ like _like you!_ He ignores it, instead giving a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Harold. I like you. I like having you around. Honestly. I have enough on my plate dealing with Liam being thick about his feelings.” He winces and drops the mocking tone. “Not that you’re thick, I mean. Just. Er. I thought it was obvious.”

Harry’s shrug is undermined by his wide smile and pink flush. “I dunno. You’re just so cool, like, the coolest person I know, and like, sometimes I need people to tell me things directly. ‘m not so good at reading between the lines.”

Louis preens, but shuffles on the bed so they’re touching just a little less, and deflects. “Hey now, don’t put yourself down. You’re very cool. And charming, bet you get all the ladies.”

“Hmmm,” Harry agrees. Louis wonders if Harry can hear the way his heart’s pounding. “The old ladies at the bakery I worked at back home all loved me.”

“I don’t know that they’d like to hear you describe them as old, Hazza, that’s impolite. You used to work at a bakery? How hasn’t this come up? What else are you hiding? Are you MI5?”

Harry giggles. “I dunno, I just didn’t think it was important. Yeah, I used to be a baker. Did you, like, work or anything, back home?”

“Yep.”

“What did you do?”

“Lots of things. Spent a bit of time at Toys R Us. Did some delivery work. Nothing cool. Looked after my sisters a lot, too.”

Harry raises his head and props his chin up on a hand. He’s making a very mild version of his scowly face. “That sounds like a lot.”

Louis gives a tiny laugh that he tries not to make bitter. “Eh. Is what it is. Money was a bit tight, especially after the divorce, so. Helped out wherever I could.”

The line between Harry’s brows deepens. “That’s not really fair on you, is it? Still being in school and all.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I mean, like, you shouldn’t have to support your family—“

“Harry,” Louis snaps. He can hear the chill in his own voice. “I don’t really need your opinion on this, thanks.”

Harry opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then shuts it, mouth a little tight and turned down at the corners. After a moment, he says, “You’re right. ‘m sorry. I just like…I dunno. I care about you, and like, I feel like I have a good grasp on your, like, personality, which is weird, ‘cause we haven’t known each other for long, but I just...I like you, I like being around you, I just feel like I don’t know you. Like we always end up talking about me.”

Louis rubs circles on Harry’s back and listens to the little sigh he gets in response. “I like you too,” he says. “‘s a bit scary, how, like, I feel like I’ve known you for years.” _Like you should know all that stuff already, so I don’t have to tell you._

“Me too.” Thankfully, Harry doesn’t pursue his _actual_ point about Louis being withholding. Bullshit he can’t read between the lines. There’s a long moment of silence--not awkward, maybe a bit restless--and then Louis remembers, and changes the subject.

“Are you really having such a hard time with your roommate?”

Harry shrugs. “I mean, yeah, I s’pose. We don’t really get along, but it’s fine. He’s a nice enough lad, we don’t see each other much. At least he always puts a sock on the door, thank God for that.”

“Indeed,” Louis says. “You’d go blind, wouldn’t you?” He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second. “I can talk to accommodations, help you get switched. I know there are some rooms open in Kendrick.”

Harry’s frowning again. “That’s all the way across campus.”

“Yes?”

“I like being in your hall,” he says, quietly.

Louis’ mouth feels dry. “Oh. Um. Well, naturally,” he says, a little fast. “It’s the best hall. Because I’m in it. Obviously.”

“Actually it’s ‘cos the internet’s faster,” Harry says, deadpan. He giggles. “Well. And the cute boys.” _Cute boys cute boys cute boys?_ A thoroughly creepy Facebook stalking section had turned up a few photos of Harry being touchy with lads, but nothing definitive; Louis knows firsthand, after all, that Harry’s just a bit touchy by nature. It could be an expression of his security in his heterosexuality. Still. _Cute boys._

He clears his throat. “That’ll be Greg, then. Good lad.”

“Twat.” Harry punches him in the shoulder.

“Wanker.”

“Short-arse.”

 _“Hey,”_ Louis says, using his best affronted tone. “I’m not short.”

“Sure, Lou.” Harry pets his hair. Louis presses up into the touch. “Whatever you say.

“Want to watch _Say Yes to the Dress?_ ”

Harry scoffs. “You’re right, you don’t know me at all. I’m really wounded that you had to ask.” Harry’s _really_ into the show, and his earnest attention to the dresses and sympathy for a bride whose fiance ( _“That’s terrible luck, anyway, why is she bringing him?”)_ is altogether far too opinionated. It provides Louis plenty of opportunities to study the cut of Harry’s profile, his slightly sweaty skin. _It’s just that the bed’s small,_ Louis chides himself, and doesn’t move into the few inches of room he could, leaving their sides pressed close together. Harry doesn’t move either.

*

“So,” Zayn says, dipping a chip in ketchup. “Are you dating, then?”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“You and Harry.” Zayn rolls his eyes, like Louis’ being thick. Which, maybe, but Louis doesn’t appreciate the implication. “I mean,” he says, and uses the chip to point at where Harry’s standing in line with a rather ridiculously full tray he appears to be having trouble balancing. “Have I ever bought you lunch?”

“You know, I can’t remember. You ought to. I’m promoting Harry to my best friend. And no, we’re not dating, what on earth gave you that idea? He’s a touchy lad. We’re both touchy. Nothing wrong with that, Z, it’s the twenty first century.” He’s fidgeting, talking too fast. He hopes he’s not blushing.

Another eye roll. “Right. You’ve been attached at the hip all week. He gets this dopey look on his face whenever he looks at you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at him.”

“I don’t _stare.”_ He pointedly turns his gaze away from Harry and at Zayn’s chips.

“You do, mate. And you’re always with him. Which I’m not upset about, although it wouldn’t do you any harm to come out a bit more often, else I might forget what your face looks like.”

“We’re having lunch now, aren’t we?”

Zayn looks pointedly at Harry again, who’s approaching their table, slowly and with what appears to be incredible concentration. Louis should take a picture.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Zayn says, loudly; Louis turns his attention back with a huff. “You’re in the honeymoon phase, and that’s fine, just not when you’re in denial. Ask the kid out. Pining isn’t a good look on you, babe.”

Louis huffs louder. “I am not _pining._ Don’t be ridiculous.” He tries to control his face as he waves Harry over, but his cheeks ache a little. Harry’s grin is threatening to split his face in half, though. He’s adorable.

“Got you a burger and chips,” Harry says, gesturing to one of the plates. “Liam said it was your favorite, the other night.” It is, but Louis feels his heart rate pick up and shifts in his seat. “And a cookie, as well.”

Louis smiles at him, because Harry is really sweet, and feels Zayn’s foot nudge him under the table. He’s smirking when Louis glances at him. Wanker. Looking back at his plate makes nausea begin to roll in his gut, and that…well. That doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s really an excessive amount of food, and he’s always anxious about other people buying him meals. He can’t hurt Harry’s feelings by not eating it, but beads of sweat begin to form at his temples and he’s sure he looks crazy right now, leg bouncing and breathing noticeably faster.

“I’ve got to run, actually,” he says, apologetic. “Forgot to do my dramaturgy assignment. I’m going to grab a takeaway container. Thanks, Haz.” It all comes out in a rush, and he wills himself not to look at Harry.

He ends up back in his bed and eats half the chips before he feels like he’s about to die, head spinning and guilt radiating through his whole body, throat itching. He shoves the box into his mini-fridge with shaking hands, and—he really wants to go to the loo, he does, it wouldn’t be that bad, it’s just once. He’s fine. Once doesn’t matter.

Of course—of _fucking_ course there’s a soft knock on his door just as he’s putting his trainers back on, heartbeat starting to calm a bit now that he’s got a plan. Of course.

“Just a mo,” he calls. “Hang on.”

“Lou, are you alright?” It’s Harry. _Fuck._

Louis takes a deep breath before opening the door. “What’s up, Hazza?”

Harry looks nervous, worrying at his lip with one hand, the other crossed over his body. “Sorry,” he says, “I was just, er. I dunno. You seemed upset, so I wanted to, like, check on you? I can go, though, that was probably stupid of me. Sorry.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair. He could turn Harry away and go take care of this in peace, but that disrupts his reasoning that it wouldn’t hurt anybody. Harry’s…sensitive. “You’re alright,” he says, after a long silence. “D’you want to come in? I was just a bit, er, overwhelmed, y’know. Sorry. Happens sometimes. C’mon in.”

It’s the first time Harry’s been in Louis’ room without citing some reason he can’t be in his own. He’s here because he noticed Louis was freaking out, and as much as that makes his skin crawl—no one should be able to tell—he also kind of wants Harry to want to be around him, and he wants to be around Harry. He feels calmer even seeing him in the doorway, which is…strange, but good strange. He thinks.

“D’you need anything?” Harry asks, before he’s climbed into the bed. “Cup of tea? Er, I could do your laundry. If you want.”

“Nah,” Louis says, glancing over at the admittedly overflowing basket and breathing through the pang of guilt. “’m alright.”

They don’t talk much. Harry, despite Louis’ insistence that he really doesn’t have to, tidies in an unobtrusive way, like it’s not a bother, no passive-aggressive comments under his breath or sighing. Louis proofreads his assignment over and over and only ogles Harry’s bum once. Weirdly, he feels more fluttery and liquid at the fact of Harry, being in his room, helping make it less of a wreck. Louis very seriously considers skipping class; he doesn’t want to disturb this peaceful coexistence, but the clock ticks closer to three, and he sighs.

“I really can’t afford to miss this class,” he says. “Professor’s a bit, er, strict. She might actually flay me.”

Harry giggles. “That would be a shame. You have nice skin.”

“Really not helping with the whole serial killer thing, Hazza.” He pauses. “Thanks, though.”

Harry texts him a few minutes before class starts—they haven’t actually been texting much, as they’re usually together—just a “chin up :) x,” but Louis shivers before turning his phone off and zipping it into the front pocket of his rucksack. He’s decently sure Mary had been near tears after the lecture when hers had gone off last week. He makes a note to complain to Harry later, and then wonders, briefly, when that had started being an automatic response, and why he doesn’t mind.

*

Louis can’t remember which campus society is hosting this party. Something about humanitarian something, maybe? Anyway, there’s lots of booze and Zayn had brought a flask, and he’s having a great fucking time, if a sweaty one. It’s way too hot, and his mouth is numb. He knocks back more gin when Zayn hands the flask to him and doesn’t even wince. He’s fucking _brilliant._ He tells Zayn as much, and someone he doesn’t know but who’s very close to him, features a little blurry. He’s great.

“What?” he says. The boy in front of him is looking at him like he just said something. “Sorry, mate,” he shouts, gesturing vaguely upwards to indicate the loudness of the room.

Boy smiles. He’s very tall. “I asked if you wanted to dance,” he says, ducking down to breathe it into Louis’ ear. Louis shivers, a hot spark running down his spine. The tips of his fingers are tingling. He almost loses his balance getting up on his tiptoes, but Boy—he should get his name—has quick reflexes and steadies him with two big hands around his waist. “Woah there,” he chuckles. “Y’alright?”

“I’m brilliant,” Louis says. “And yeah, let’s. Dance, I mean, I wanna dance.”

It gets dirty fast; Louis has to stretch a bit to grind his arse against Boy’s hips, but Boy bends his knees so it’s easier, hands roaming over Louis’ chest. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment on the squeak and scratch of nylon under Louis’ t-shirt. He does try to venture under it once, but Louis grinds back harder and guides his hands away. He’s feeling fucking _amazing,_ floaty and overly warm and wanted. He’s not sure how long they dance, just that, at some point, Boy ducks down to put his mouth by Louis’ ear, dragging over the shell. He’s got a beard. Louis isn’t sure he likes the way it scratches. Whatever. His mouth is at Louis’ ear, and he whispers, “D’you want to come back to mine?”

He’s floaty and happy enough that he nods before he realizes he is, and lets himself be dragged by the elbow towards what he assumes is the exit, stumbling and giggling. Boy has a nice, strong grip, the kind that would probably be painful if Louis weren’t quite so drunk but will leave bruises tomorrow.

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s confused—Boy is in front of him. Who’s pulling him back? He makes a displeased noise, slurs, “’m busy,” and tries to keep walking, but the hand on his shoulder yanks him back, hard.

“What the fuck,” he says, and tries not to fall over as he turns around. The room is spinning kind of a lot and everything’s blurry.

“Hey.” That’s Zayn’s voice. Zayn is killing his vibe.

“Zayn,” he says, very seriously. “You are killing my vibe.” He looks around to see if Boy is still there. Ah, there he is, right behind Louis with an arm around his middle.

“Can I help you?” Boy says, sounding a bit annoyed. That’s not good. “We’re kind of busy, here.”

“Hey, mate,” Zayn snaps. “Back off for a moment, would you? Just trying to make sure he’s okay.”

Boy takes his arm off Louis’ waist and steps away, muttering something Louis can’t hear. Louis hopes he stays.

Zayn snaps his fingers in front of Louis’ face. “Hey. Twat. You’re drunk.”

“I know, Zee, that’s the _point.”_ Louis rolls his eyes.

“You are way too drunk to go home with anyone,” Zayn says, “unless that person is just putting you in your bed and leaving. C’mon, mate, let’s go.”

“ _No,_ ” Louis insists, jerking out of Zayn’s grip. “Don’t be mean, you’re being mean. I’m a big boy, I can make my own decisions—“

“Excuse me,” Boy cuts in. “She’s fine, could you leave us alone please?”

Louis’ stomach rolls a bit, but he’s not thinking terribly clearly, so he frowns when Zayn gets his angry face on. Louis could probably take Zayn in a fight, but he’s got a scary face when he’s angry. It could probably kill people. Or like, turn them to stone. _Imagine if Zayn had snakes for hair, that’d be wicked._

“ _He,_ ” Zayn says, overly loudly, maybe, Louis isn’t sure, “is wasted, and I’m taking him home. Nice talking to you, now fuck off.”

“He,” Boy repeats. Oh. Louis kind of gets what’s going on, and he’s very sure he would feel better if he were sitting on the floor. He starts to, but Zayn hauls him up with an arm hooked under Louis’ armpit. That does register as kind of painful. Louis was feeling good and now he’s not.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “D’you need something?”

“Not anymore,” Boy says, snorting. “Not into…that.” He gestures at Louis, and then turns, slips back into the mass of bodies and disappears.

“Fucking wanker,” Zayn spits. “Piece of shit. Are you okay?”

Louis leans against his shoulder. It’s very bony. “’m alright,” he says. “My own fault. ‘s fine. Thanks.”

“Not your fault.” Zayn squeezes Louis’ arm. “I was gonna…actually, you know what, you’re way too drunk, I should get you home.”

“No, what?” Louis’ feeling a good bit more sober, and everything is getting progressively louder and clearer. “What were you gonna say? ‘m alright.”

Zayn purses his lips for a moment, studying Louis closely. His face is much more in focus, now. After a long moment, he sighs and says, “Harry’s crying.”

“What?” Louis says dumbly.

“Harry’s crying,” Zayn repeats. “Liam’s trying to talk to him, but, y’know.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Why’s Harry crying? Did something, er, happen? With his roommate?”

Zayn’s brow furrows. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, ‘m serious. You’re being mean, though, just tell me.”

“I’m not _entirely_ sure,” Zayn says, slowly and clearly, “but I think he saw you dancing with that guy, and then he went to the loo and he hasn’t come out.”

“Where is he?”

“Still in the loo, Lou, keep up.”

“I’m gonna. I’m gonna go talk to him.” Louis takes a purposeful—and not too wobbly—step towards where he’s pretty sure the toilets are.

“Hey, wait.” Zayn grabs his arm. “You’re drunk. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m not _that_ drunk.” Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Well. Not anymore. Arsehole sobered me up a bit. ‘sides, you can’t just tell me Harry’s crying and then say I have to go home. That’s not on.”

“You’re right,” Zayn says, holding his hands up, palms out. “That way.” He nods his head in the direction Louis was going. Of course Louis was right. He tells Zayn as much, and then turns on his heel and half-jogs towards the toilets.

He hesitates for only a moment before opening the door to the mens’—not a big deal, he’s fine, arsehole was just being an arsehole—and it’s crowded, but thankfully no one looks at him. Liam’s leaning on the door of the stall in the back.

“Louis!” he calls, as though they’ve not already made eye contact and Louis isn’t crossing the room. “Thank god, mate. This has been really awkward,” he says, quietly, with a hand cupped around his mouth.

Louis’ on a mission, though. “Harry?” he calls, and then again, slightly louder. “Harry? Hazza?”

There’s a little cough from behind the door, and then a deep voice calls out, a little shakily, “’m alright. Just not feeling well, don’t worry. Sorry.”

“Harold,” Louis says. “C’mon, love, come out of there. These toilets are mingin’.”

Harry laughs a little at that, and then hiccups. Louis’ only seen him post-cry or trying to hold it back; his heart clenches at what Harry sounds like when he _actually_ cries. It’s awful already, and he hasn’t even seen him yet. He’s very close to sober, now, heart pounding and his chest constricted with guilt.

“If you don’t unlock this door I’m just going to crawl under,” Louis warns. “And I’d have to burn all my clothes, and I rather liked this outfit.”

“I’m really fine.” Harry’s voice is still wobbly; Louis can barely hear sniffles.

“That’s a load of shite,” Louis says flatly. “Alright, I’m coming in.” He squats and peeks under the door—he can see Harry’s white converse and the cuffs of his jeans, and he can see when they’re suddenly in motion, but his reaction times are slowed enough that he hasn’t stood up by the time Harry opens the door, and it bounces off his knees, startling him. He falls backwards onto his elbows.

“Oh my god,” Harry says, eyes wide—and very red, like his whole face—a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Louis’ a little too stunned to talk for a moment, and he just starts laughing, instead. Liam offers a hand to help him off the floor, which he accepts. There’s probably no point brushing anything off his bum, but he does, anyway, laughter still wracking his ribcage.

“Are you alright? Oh god, did you hit your head, Jesus Christ, I’m _so_ sorry, Lou.” Harry sounds truly miserable. Right. Louis needs to make words happen.

“I’m fine, Harold. Promise. I just…’s funny. We’re even now, innit?”

Harry takes a moment to get it, but when he does, his face clears. His cheeks are blotchy and red and his lips are bitten pink. His eyes look very green. He’s laughing, too, though. “I s’pose we are,” he giggles.

Liam coughs. They’re making a scene, Louis realizes suddenly. He feels trembly and hot and really wants to get out of here.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s go. C’mon, Hazza.” He tries to summon his best glare when Harry looks like he’s going to protest. “We’re going back to the dorm and we’re going to talk, okay?” He tries to soften his voice, control the way he’s slurring a bit. His head is starting to hurt. Normally, he’d get another drink, but he’s definitely going to need to be lucid for this conversation.

Harry nods meekly and follows him and Liam out the door. Louis tells Liam to go back to the party—“Seriously, Li, I’ve got this”—and he stays a few steps ahead of Harry as they leave the Union and step outside into the barely-chilly air. It’s only September, thankfully, but Louis still shivers a bit, even with the residual warmth of the alcohol.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks softly. “D’you want my jacket?”

“No,” Louis snaps, harsher than he’d meant to. He sighs. “Sorry, sorry. Hey, c’mere, don’t walk behind me like a kicked puppy. How would I know if you tripped?”

Harry smiles a little. “I won’t trip,” he says, a little whiny, but tentative. Louis doesn’t like Harry being shy with him all of a sudden.

“Alright, Bambi, whatever you say.” Louis tries to keep his tone fond. “C’mere, I wanna keep an eye on you.” He starts walking. It’s very dark, and he stumbles a couple of times.

“Hey, wait,” Harry calls, and jogs up behind Louis. “You’re the one who’s going to fall, c’mon.” He pauses, and then asks, face screwed up like it’s painful, “I could carry you?”

“I’m too heavy,” Louis mumbles. “Don’t want you to drop me.”

“You’re tiny,” Harry says. “I’ll be fine, c’mon.”

Louis considers for a moment, but it _is_ dark and he really can’t see anything and his limbs are starting to feel very heavy. It’s tempting, and he’s not about to turn down an offer to be close to Harry. “Alright then,” he groans. “If you drop me I’ll…I dunno, shave your head in your sleep.”

Harry smiles, and crouches so Louis can clamber onto his back. He hooks his arms under Louis’ knees and stands up, and Louis’ probably holding too tightly around his neck, but he doesn’t complain. He walks slowly, carefully, but he doesn’t seem to be struggling to hold Louis up, so. That’s something. Not something Louis wants to analyze right now, but something.

He sets Louis down at the door to their building, swiping his key card and holding the door for Louis. They take the lift in silence. Once they step out, Harry hesitates.

“I’m—“ he starts, jerking his head in the direction of his room.

“No,” Louis says, firmly. “Come back to mine, okay? You’re upset and your roommate isn’t going to help because he’s a twat. Neither will moping by yourself. If you really don’t want to be around me, that’s fine, but I really want to talk to you.” He’s barely buzzed at all now, and is proud of himself for constructing such a coherent (and correct) argument.

Harry blinks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Louis’ room is the first in the other direction, and once they’re inside, Louis’ not quite sure what to do. This was as far as his plan had gone.

Harry just stands by the doorway, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket and looking at his shoes. Louis’ going to have to be the first one to talk here, it seems.

He sighs. “Hey,” he says, soft as he can, shuffling closer to Harry’s hunched form. He can’t see his face, so, hesitating, he lifts a hand and gently uses one finger to push Harry’s chin up. “Hi,” he says, smiling a little as he takes Harry’s face in. Harry’s smiling back, a little nervously.

“Can I give you a hug?” Louis asks. Harry looks kind of desperate for one, and he nods quickly before wrapping his long body around Louis, stooping so he can tuck his face into the crook of Louis’ neck. He exhales, long and shaky. Louis rubs over his back in circles, slow and gentle. The denim of Harry’s jacket is very soft, feels nice on his palm.

“’m sorry,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ neck. “I didn’t mean to, like, make you have to, er. Deal with me.”

“Remember what I said the other day?”

“You say a lot of things.” Harry’s probably smiling, just a little.

“That’s true,” Louis says, with a small giggle, “but I meant something specific. About how I’m not that moral or very good at pretending I like people. I care about you and you’re not making me do anything. I would really like it if you would tell me what’s bothering you, though.”

“It’s stupid,” Harry sighs. “I’m just being dumb.”

“Maybe,” Louis agrees, “but I doubt it.” He’s probably got to bring it up first, what with the way Harry’s fidgeting and quiet. “Zayn said you saw me dancing with that guy.”

Harry’s back tenses under his hands, and he goes to pull away, but, on instinct, Louis holds him harder. After a second, he melts back into the embrace. “Like I said,” Harry sniffles, “’s stupid.”

“That guy was stupid,” Louis says, “first of all. I turn into a bit of a slag when I’m drunk, sorry.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Harry protests, pulling back for real and holding Louis by the shoulders, his gaze intense and brow furrowed. “You’re not.”

Louis huffs a little laugh. “Well. That’s nice of you, Hazza, but my virtue isn’t really the point here. Why were you so upset?” Harry winces. “Hey, I’m not cross with you, I just want to understand, okay?” He moves a bit of hair out of Harry’s face.

“I, um.” Harry rakes a hand through his hair and sighs, clearly trying to compose himself. “It’s dumb, but I…I dunno, I just, like, we’ve been spending so much time together, and like, it’s great, because I love spending time with you, and it’s weird maybe ‘cause we haven’t known each other very long but I _trust_ you, and I—I’ve had a lot of friends, like, I dunno, I guess I was pretty popular at school, and I’m starting to make them here, but like, I don’t…You feel different, I s’pose? I dunno. ‘s weird. I’m probably, like, misinterpreting things, and like, I’m alright, I know it’s dumb, but I, er. I s’pose I have a bit of a crush on you?” he finishes, his voice lilting up like it’s a question. It’s a lot to take in, but Louis can only focus on _I have a bit of a crush on you I have a bit of a crush on you I have a bit of a crush on you._

He needs to say something, because Harry’s starting to curl back in on himself, screwing up his face like he might cry, and Louis can’t have that. Harry _likes_ him. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat feels choked up, so he does the rash, impulsive thing, as is his specialty, and ducks in to kiss Harry.

It’s a bad first kiss—Louis still isn’t counting the one the other night, that was a dare, even though it was _wonderful_ and Louis’ found himself thinking about it during multiple lectures—Harry’s nose is running a bit and Louis’ mouth is still sort of numb, although maybe it’s adrenaline, now, because his whole body is vibrating. It’s tentative and too short and the angle is wrong, but _Harry likes him, Harry’s kissing him back, Harry’s wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist and gently pulling him closer._

“Hey,” Louis says, after they pull away, panting a bit. “I want to do a lot more of that, but I’m also about to pass out.”

“Me too,” Harry admits, smiling. “Having trouble keeping my eyes open. Trying, though. You’re nice to look at.”

Louis flushes. “You too, Curly. C’mon, let’s brush our teeth and get some water in me so my head doesn’t actually break open when I wake up tomorrow. Did you drink?”

“Only a little,” Harry says. “’m fine.”

Five minutes later, Louis grunts as he collapses onto his squeaky mattress, Harry following, a little hesitantly, after. “C’mere,” Louis murmurs, holding his arms out. “Wanna cuddle.” He winds an arm around Harry’s waist until they’re pressed flush, Harry’s back to Louis’ chest. “This okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m, er. I like being little spoon.”

None of the boys Louis’ been to bed with have let him hold them—very few held him, either. He sort of wants to cry with how much he likes it, being curled around Harry, nose pressed into his hair, clean and soft and smelling of green apples. He hums, and Harry echoes it back. He presses a little kiss into the nape of Harry’s neck, small and soft and quick like it’s a secret. He’s not sure if Harry notices, but at any rate, he’s asleep almost as soon as he shuts his eyes and settles into Harry’s warmth.

*

He’s way too hot when he wakes up, everything too sticky and slick, and his head is fucking _pounding._ He burrows his way out of the covers, throwing the duvet off. It’s not much better, but the air is somewhat cool, and he takes several deep breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose. The throb in his skull calms just a bit, focusing to smaller points next to his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Ow.”

Something shifts next to him. For a moment, Louis’ heart leaps into his throat, but murky images start to filter in, and he catches a glimpse of chocolate curls against his light blue pillowcase. _Oh._ Harry’s here. Louis feels a slow flash of warmth run from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and back again. A flash of nervousness accompanies it, but not in the way it normally does when he wakes up with someone in his bed. He’s very sure they haven’t done anything but kissed, now that he’s able to sort through a vague timeline of last night. Without realizing he’s doing it, his hand makes its way to brush over his mouth. He scrunches his nose at the whiff he catches of his morning breath and decides that the first order of business, since Harry’s here and since they’d kissed and Louis would really like to do it again, is going to have to be brushing his teeth.

He’s slow and careful about sliding his legs and bum off the mattress, mindful not to wake Harry up. He’s all burrowed in Louis’ duvet and it’s very cute. Besides, Louis needs just a minute or two to himself to think. And also to brush his teeth, which he does while his brain plays a constant loop of their conversation last night and their kiss, _both_ the kisses, a giddy _he likes me he likes me he likes me_ with the occasional swoop of fear in his belly, cold and twisting.

When he inches the door open enough to peek his head around, Harry’s sitting up against the wall, knees bent and his arms crossed across them. His hair’s a wreck. A bird’s nest that’s seen better days, maybe. It’s adorable. Louis’ smiling, and one of Harry’s dimples peeks back at him, a little _hi, I’m glad to see you._ Louis hopes, but he thinks he’s right.

“Morning,” he says, as the silence starts to stretch on a little too long. “Sleep well?”

“Uh huh,” Harry replies, voice somehow even deeper and rougher having just woken up. “Slept really well. Better than I have in ages, I think. ‘s nice. Did you? Sleep well, that is.” Harry seems a bit nervous, but it’s not making him cut to the point any quicker than he usually does.

“Slept great,” Louis says. “Quite warm, though. Do you, like, run hotter than the average person?”

“Maybe.”

“Well. I’m going to—“ He gestures to the bottle of paracetamol he’s picked up from his desk. “Had a bit too much fun last night, apparently.”

Harry’s chewing on his lip. “Do you, er…” He trails off and furrows his brow, chewing harder. “D’you, like, remember, then? Er, like, I dunno, Liam said you were pretty drunk. I’m sorry, by the way. You need anything?”

It’s quite bright outside. Louis squints, and knocks back three capsules. “You mind closing the blinds?”

Harry hops to it, and it’s—it helps the throbbing in his head, but there’s something else about the dim light, a softer quality to everything, to the rumpled covers and the scrunched lines of Harry’s face as he looks anywhere but Louis.

“Hey,” Louis says, because he’s making Harry upset again, clearly. “I’m gonna get back in bed, alright? I mean, if you, like, er—if you regret last night or whatever, that’s completely fine, I don’t want you to feel pressured, but. Well. I haven’t, er, changed my mind. And I’d…” He swallows, willing his heart to slow down. “I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright.”

He doesn’t get to see the full, blinding power of Harry’s grin in the semi-darkness, but he knows it’s there, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to cross the room and kiss that grin until it disappears when Harry kisses him back, soft and slow like everything else—just them, just this, just here, just now. It’s perfect.

*

They should probably talk about it—what they are, or whatever—but they don’t, too wrapped up in giggling and kissing and kissing whilst giggling. Harry insists on going out and getting them breakfast, despite Louis repeatedly telling him that it’s _fine,_ he’s not much of a breakfast person anyway, and the twenty minutes he’s gone are too long. Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself; he flits around the room trying to tidy things and making them more of a mess, somehow. He keeps bouncing on the soles of his feet. Harry _likes_ him. They’re kissing. That’s a thing they do, now, since last night.

The not-so-wonderful parts of last night are starting to trickle in the longer Louis’ awake and Harry’s gone, and the zinging sensations that run down his spine are less pleasant. _Fuck._ That had been stupid. He’d been stupid, and he should’ve expected what happened, and he doesn’t care all that much, really, what Arsehole thinks of him, except that he does, and that he _really_ cares what Harry thinks of him, and if they’re going to do this fucking brilliant thing they’re doing he’s going to have to have an awkward conversation and there is absolutely no guarantee Harry won’t reject him and it’s stupid because Louis just met him but he feels like he would maybe die. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he’s heard Harry talk about him in the third person, and that realization makes anxiety prickle all over his skin.

The door clicks open, though, and Harry’s back. “I got scones,” he says, holding up a white paper bag. “Cranberry and pumpkin.”

“Festive,” Louis says. “Or. Seasonal, I suppose. D’you want tea? I can make tea.” He fumbles about with the kettle without really registering if Harry responds. Harry takes sugar, which is a sin, but Louis can cope with it. He tells Harry so, again, and gets a dimpled smile and the bag held out to him. The scones smell really good. Harry’d gone to the posh bakery down the road. The thump of Louis’ heart in his ears is insistent and he’s—fuck, he’s sweating, this is so stupid, he’s fine, he’s _hungry,_ he’s _allowed to eat_ —

“Thanks, love,” he chokes out instead, and then clears his throat. “’m not really hungry quite yet. I’ll have it a bit later.” He smiles, and pulls Harry in to kiss his small frown.

The inside of Harry’s mouth tastes like cranberries, warm and sweet, and Louis wonders if he might be able to get his fill from the gentle catch of their lips alone.

*

A lot, apparently. He can’t seem to keep himself from touching Harry—running hands through his hair, squeezing his knee, nuzzling at his shoulder, kissing him on the cheek, on the mouth when he’s feeling brave. He feels high on Harry’s giddiness, the way he soaks up Louis’ affection and _glows._ Louis glows, too, when Harry pulls him close with an arm around his waist and introduces him to his friend Taylor from his course: “This is Louis. He’s…he’s my person.”

Later, curled in bed together—a tricky feat, with the narrow dorm mattresses, but Harry seems determined to fold himself in shapes that shouldn’t be possible—Harry traces one finger over Louis’ features, like he’s trying to memorize them by touch. The attention makes Louis squirm a bit, but beyond the curl of fear that Harry won’t like what he finds, he _loves_ it.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Harry says all of a sudden, his touch feather-light on Louis’ right eyebrow.

“Oh?” Louis manages. “That’s. That’s grand, mate. Thanks for sharing.”

Harry huffs and starts tracing down the slope of Louis’ nose, gaze intense, as though it’s a problem he’s trying to wrap his head around. “You didn’t let me finish,” he whines. “I just, like, I was thinking, and, I dunno. I s’pose I was always, or, er, since like, maybe since I was like, 14 or so? I’ve kind of like. Thought maybe I liked boys, but not ‘cos there was someone I wanted to date, or…I just like, thought like, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were. Or I was open to the idea, I guess. I like people, you know? I’ve only dated girls but I haven’t, um, dated many people. Two, if you count my girlfriend in primary school. I think we might actually be engaged, come to think of it. I gave her a ring.”

Louis shoves at Harry’s shoulder. “Oi. What are you doing fooling around with me, then? I’m not looking to be anyone’s side piece, Hazza. I respect myself.”

Harry grins. “Alright. I’ll see if I can find her on Facebook or something, tell her it’s over. Would that make you happy?”

“Enormously.” So would other things, that Louis’ heart is pounding at the possibility of, but he does, contrary to popular opinion, know how to be patient sometimes, when it counts. “You make me happy,” he adds, softer, and kisses Harry’s knuckle where it’s brushing close to his lips. “Like really, really happy. Stupidly happy.”

“You too,” Harry says, and pauses for a long moment. “So. Er. My point was, um, like, I dunno, we haven’t really talked about, like, what we are, and that’s fine, ‘cos I have fun with you and it’s working, but like…I didn’t want you to think I was, er, having a sexuality crisis or anything. Um. That sounds silly, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not silly. I was sort of worried. Especially at the beginning, there. Thought I was taking advantage of you.”

Harry scowls. It’s adorable. “Taking advantage of me?”

Louis shrugs. “You know. In your, er, vulnerability. Me being, er, something of an…authority figure, I suppose.” He blanches at the phrasing.

Harry giggles. “Authority figure. Oh my god, Lou.”

“Hey. Don’t make fun of me.” He sticks a finger into Harry’s right dimple. It gets deeper. “I dunno, I was supposed to like, support you and help you solve your housing problems, not think about kissing you. Or actually kiss you.”

“I wanted to kiss you, though,” Harry argues. “And, er. I may have, um, exaggerated, about my, er, roommate situation. Just a bit.”

“ _Really,_ ” Louis gasps, and clutches a hand to his chest. “I _never._ ”

“Shut uuuuuuuup,” Harry whines. “You bought it.”

“No I didn’t, love.” He pats Harry’s head—his hair’s so soft and springy, God. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re a shit liar.” He kisses the pout off Harry’s face because he can, now. “What were we talking about, anyway? I can’t remember, it was all so long ago.”

“Sh. Er. Um. I think my point was, er…d’you want to like, or, maybe, would you be alright with me calling you my boyfriend?”

 _Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend._ Louis’ pulse pounds in his ears and fingertips and every point of contact between him and Harry, who’s studying him with such a hopeful expression, a hint of fear. His throat feels tight and he’s not sure he can make words until he does. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that would be brilliant. Aces. Let’s be boyfriends.”

“Alright,” Harry says, and that’s that. _Boyfriends._ God.

*

In theory, Louis' got a folder for Comp Lit that should have everything in it, but his commitment to filing everything where it's supposed to be this term had only lasted a few weeks. Longer than last term, at least. He sits down and begins shuffling through the papers in his bag, registering someone approaching but not looking up to check who. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Zayn faux-gasps, "Tommo!" Louis looks up; Zayn's pressing a hand to his chest with the intention of looking shocked, but he's too self-conscious to fully commit to it. Louis had badgered him into auditioning for the Spring production last year, and even he has to admit it had been a terrible idea, and that he owed Zayn a  _lot_ of drinks.

Louis blinks. “What?” he says, and settles back into his seat to wrestle with the little desk that's supposed to swing up from the right arm. He’s…what is Zayn on about? “What are you on about?”

“I was considering sending out a search party.” He gives a little nod. “Hey El. Look who’s in the land of the living.”

She rolls her eyes and slumps into the seat on the other side of Louis, her ponytail flicking him in the face. At his affronted noise, she whips around to face him. “There you are. Nice to see your face, I’d forgotten what you looked like.” Her stern expression cracks, though, and she hooks her arm around his neck.

“Did I accidentally wake up in the future or summat? I saw you both on Friday.”

“You didn’t come to Libby’s thing, on Saturday. You said you were going to, remember? Coming over to mine to get ready? Ring any bells?” Eleanor just looks amused, really, but he suddenly remembers and feels a sharp pang of guilt.

“Sorry,” he says, “I totally forgot, I am so sorry, El.”

“It’s alright,” she says, seeming a little alarmed. “I was just messing with you. Liam told me what happened—well, Danielle told me what happened, via Liam. By the way, they’re officially back on, I was going to tell you on Saturday. Anyway. You finally grew some balls, then?”

His hackles go up a bit at the phrasing, but Eleanor doesn’t mean any harm, and besides, Zayn cuts in. “No, he just got his head screwed on properly. By me. Drawing attention to the fact that that kid was pining hard.”

“Oh my god, you really didn’t know.” Eleanor’s trying not to laugh. “That’s so sweet,” she coos, “Zayn, they’re just babies.”

“Oi,” Louis snaps.

“She’s right,” Zayn chimes in. “It’s like watching a pair of kittens.”

“I’m not a _kitten,_ ” Louis argues. “I’ll give you Harold, though.”

“He’s cute,” Eleanor says. “Taylor, you know, the one who runs…” She purses her lips. “Feminism is for everyone? I think that’s what it’s called now, I can’t keep track. Anyway, she apparently had a bit of a crush on him; she’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh.”

“I dunno. Is he gay, then? Or…” She trails off, scrunching her face up a bit. Louis thinks he knows where she’s going with this, so he heads it off.

“He says he likes everyone, but that he’d never liked a lad who wasn’t, like, a pop star before. So. I dunno, s’pose he’s bi or pan or whatever. He can label himself.”

“Oh! Okay. That’s perfect, then, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Louis says, slowly. “For him.”

Zayn makes a little noise and nudges Louis’ shoulder, looking across him at Eleanor and furrowing his eyebrows.

“I just meant,” she continues, “it’s probably nice, isn’t it, that he won’t, er, care. Or doesn’t. I mean. Does he know? About you, er…”

Louis swallows around the lump in his throat and feels his stomach clench around the ham and cheese he’d eaten for lunch. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think so.”

“Hey, El,” Zayn cuts in, “what did you write for the journal response? I’m a bit worried I missed the point.” Shit. Louis hadn’t done it. _Fuck._ It’s only the second week of term and he’s fucking up.

The twisting anxiety of having not done the assignment doesn’t feel much different from the unease that was shaking through him before, but he’s marginally better equipped to handle this. He tugs his laptop out of his rucksack—God, it’s a fucking dinosaur, he thinks, eyeing El’s Macbook—and opens up Word. He has five minutes before the lecture begins; at least he types quickly. He’d written it down, he doesn’t know how he forgot, except that he _does,_ because he’d been attached at the hip to Harry all weekend, laughing and cuddling and kissing. He grins, a little, at the memory, and then tastes something sour in the back of his mouth. He swallows it down and begins typing furiously.

*

_Harold: U wanna hang out tonight? (:_

Louis fidgets for a moment. He does, but he’s got that bibliography for dramaturgy due tomorrow and he won’t get it done if Harry’s there being his cute self and letting Louis wrap him up in cling film and parade him around the dorm building, more or less mummified. Or convincing Louis to help him bake cookies that end up more on the ceiling—of the communal kitchen, mind—than in the oven and singing “A Spoonful of Sugar” whilst standing on a stepladder and scrubbing as Louis directs him from the counter. Or drawing dicks and flowers and flowers as dicks on Louis’ notes. Louis fucking loves it. Finally someone who’s game and doesn’t think Louis is annoying or not serious enough. It’s lovely.

Lovely as it is, it’s not conducive to Louis getting work done, so he texts back _essay due at midnight ): gonna work in the lib w liam. Don’t get too lonely love !! (:_ and trudges down to the library.

“Lou!” Liam says, springing up from the table he’s got all his books spread over, as soon as he sees him. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. What’s going on, mate?”

Louis shrugs. “Not much, you know, same old. Hijinks. Tomfoolery. Lecturing freshies about not whizzing on the toilet seats, or at least cleaning it up if they do. Honestly. I’ll never understand the need to do it standing up, Liam, can you help me? It’s an important research question.”

Liam flushes. “Well. Er, I think it’s just like, a thing you do, like, er, um…shaking hands? It just feels wrong to sit down, but I don’t know why. Can I read your paper when you’re done?”

Louis blinks. “I was joking,” he says, “but thanks for the insight, Leemo. What’ve you been up to, then?” He slumps into the seat across from Liam and heaves his bag up onto the table. “A little birdy told me you and Danielle are back on. For real-for real.”

Liam really does go red, but he also beams, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. I’m really happy, like, it’s great. I really love her.”

“That’s brilliant, mate.” Louis listens attentively as Liam tells him all about what Danielle’s been doing in dance rehearsals, and how he made dinner for her the other day, and Skyping with her mum; he smiles at the way Liam lights up whenever he remembers some other detail he wants to tell Louis. Liam’s happiness has always been infectious, since he was an odd-shaped child who’d grinned through skinned knees and shared his crisps with Louis at break.

“What are you working on, then?” Liam gestures with his pencil toward the chaotic pile of papers Louis’ slapped onto the table.

“Dramaturgy,” Louis groans. “Prof is a fuckin’ fascist. Great class, though.”

“What, er…if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is that?”

“’s like…a dramaturg is sort of in charge of the overall, like research and development of the production, artistically. Bit of everything, really. We’re supposed to be developing a proposal for a Shakespeare play transposed into an unusual setting, for the term project.”

“Sounds cool,” Liam says. “I’ll let you get down to it.” Louis’ coaxed the fun side out of Liam over the years, but he’s very businesslike about school, where Louis’ approach has always been a tad more chaotic. He’s a great study partner. He also laughs and joins in, when, an hour and a half into their study session, Louis starts throwing spitballs at him, until one of the librarians comes over to inform them that _any more of that and I’ll have you banned for the term, young lady._

Louis bites his tongue, which he’s only good at when it comes to himself, but Liam, bless him, furrows his brow and turns around. Louis kicks him under the table, or, well, tries to. He ends up kicking himself in the shin and winces.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Liam says, calm and pleasant. “We’ll stop, but _he_ —“ He stresses the syllable and gestures to Louis, who’s shaking his head minutely, shivering, “isn’t a—“

“ _Liam,”_ Louis grits out. “It’s fine. Sorry ma’am,” he says, staring at the table, absently pulling hard at the skin between one thumb and forefinger, twisting and stretching and digging his nails in.

The woman murmurs something and then stalks off. It’s not helping Louis get over his fear of librarians that the head one here perpetually looks like she’s sucking a lemon.

“You okay?” Liam’s looking at him with his concerned face. Louis hates that face.

“Fine,” he snaps. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that. I’ve told you that before.”

“Sorry. I forgot, I was just trying to help.”

“Please just let me handle it myself, Liam.”

“That’s not—I dunno, it just makes me remember back in school, y’know. It’s like, a reflex.”

“Thanks for defending me in college, Li, I’m forever in your debt.” He rolls his eyes, still worrying at the webbing of his left hand. “I just—it’s easier to just. Not. Alright? I’m fine. We’ve been over this.”

“Alright.” Liam’s frowning. He’s upset. “I was just trying to help.”

“I _know,_ ” Louis snaps. “God. Fuck. Alright. I need a smoke. I’ll be back in a bit.”

A smoke turns into three cigarettes, one after the other. Fucking Liam. Fuck Liam thinking he has to act like Louis’ a child who can’t speak up for himself rather than an adult who knows how to pick his battles. It hadn’t even bothered him, not really, he’s _used_ to it, and he can take care of his fucking self.

He gathers his things silently, avoiding making eye contact with Liam, and gets right into bed once he’s back in his room. He digs a stick of gum out of his pocket and chews it until he can’t taste anything, and feels a little better, reading everything he can find about 17th century Morocco.

The buzzing of his phone snaps him out of his J-STOR trance, and he’s momentarily annoyed. He’d been in a groove.

It’s two texts. One from Liam: _sry m8 hope ur okk._ And one from Harry: _do u fancy watching some dance moms? i have a craving (:_

 _Sure,_ he taps out. _10 min ? @ mine ??_

And then, biting his lip: _it’s ok im sry i overreacted, im a dick. love u._

Harry brings popcorn and they practice throwing and catching it in their mouths. They get it down within half an hour, although Harry does continue getting hit in the face quite a bit. Louis licks a bit of grease off Harry’s cheek and then kisses him, warm and buttery, for a long time.

*

Around three—Louis can’t quite see his clock without his glasses on—he wakes up and his stomach is gnawing on itself, his throat itching like there’s something lodged in it, fingers twitching sporadically. Harry’s snoring softly, facing the wall with the covers thrown off, and Louis’ able to slip out of bed without disturbing him 

He searches the room with wild eyes.

They hadn’t finished all the popcorn Harry’d made last night—he’d insisted that one bag just looks sad in a big bowl, so he’d done two—and Louis takes a stale handful, notes the grease on his palm. It’s robotic, almost, the way he reaches out and stuffs it into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing, his heart  _ thump thump thumping; _ he’s not thinking, can’t think, only move, over and over and over, bowl to mouth.  Occasionally he’s interrupted by a little cough from a kernel that catches his throat the wrong way, but he pushes past it, oil coating his lips, tacky and tasteless. It’s all alright, he’s—he’s not sure what he’s feeling because he can’t think about it, not now, he can only do. Everything falls away; blank and fuzzy.

Until his fingers scrabble at the bottom of the bowl and only find slippery, unpopped kernels and plastic. 

The fuzziness gives way to lurching terror quickly enough that it would give him whiplash if he could focus on anything but the way his heart’s in his throat and his stomach is too full and he’s shaking,  _ God,  _ what did he do, why did he fucking  _ do that,  _ he’s fucking—he’s disgusting, he’s going to die, he’s going to choke on shame and he  _ should. _

It’s sort of like sleepwalking, but he’s never sleepwalked, he just doesn’t know another way to describe the way his feet carry him out the door and down the hall to the—thank  _ God— _ single stall. He’d lived in a different building, last year, so it’s not the  _ exact  _ same walk of shame but it’s familiar, so familiar, muscle memory taking over. 

His legs guide him into the stall and his hands maneuver to lock the door and his knees fall to the floor of their own accord, absorbing the impact easy as anything, and his right hand dips into the bowl to wet itself and ease the glide of the two fingers that crawl to tickle at his tonsils—it’s been a while, two are enough, but there was a time (many times) when he’d had to use four and that even took persistence—and after only a few seconds his gut lurches, choking off his breathing, and it only takes one more push for hard lumps to make their way out of his throat and splash into the water, wetting his face.  He notes with some satisfaction—still overwhelming terror, but a little relief—that it’s all holding together.  He’ll be able to get it all out, even though the sharp bits scrape his throat on their way out and once or twice he accidentally inhales too soon, lungs desperate for air he keeps denying them, sharp twisting in his gut,  _ good,  _ the muscles screaming, oxygen-deprived, a little warmth making itself known between his legs, and the flash of shame is enough to keep him heaving until there’s nothing coming up, just harsh coughs and spit.

He gives himself a moment to pant, eyes closed and leaking, hot, down his face, still kneeling over the toilet bowl, waits for his ears to stop ringing. Toilet paper to wipe off his fingers, around his mouth, the toilet seat top and bottom; he tosses it in the bowl and flushes the lot. His legs groan as he stands up and makes his way to the sink. Cold water—hands, face, in his mouth, swallow, swish, spit, more on the face, swallow more, breathe, hands again, shut the tap off. Check the mirror: he looks like hell, red and swollen, lips cracked, knuckles red, eyes bloodshot, he should’ve brought a towel. Gum—brushing is bad, after—wincing as little leftover particles cling to it. Chew. Spit. Another stick. Chew. More water. Chew. Spit. Wash hands. One more splash of water on the face. Less red. Breath’s alright. Throat burns on exhale. Lozenges somewhere in the room. Heart slowing down. Shaking less. Eyes looking better. No vomit in hair. Hair fixed. Looking okay. Splashes face once more for luck. Cheeks a little hot. Some broken capillaries. Nothing to be done for it. Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Okay.

He slips back into the room as quietly as he can, but the click of the lock still rings out and makes him stop breathing for a moment. Harry doesn’t stir that he can see, so he tiptoes back to the bed and places one knee on the mattress, not a squeaky spot, steadies his hands and hauls himself up, but he’s still a little shaky and his arms don’t hold him up so he falls face-first onto the mattress, bouncing a little.

“Lou?” Harry murmurs, sleepy and confused. “Wha’s—‘re you ok? Wha…” One of his arms flails to catch Louis around the waist. He winces but doesn’t move it, lies stock still as Harry’s snores pick back up and he figures he’s alright to turn on his side and nose at the back of Harry’s tee, inhale lavender fabric softener and a little sweat, sleep and warmth. A little part of him wants to wake Harry up and ask for a hug, to be held until he doesn’t feel like waking up in the morning is an impossibility, but that’s needy, and stupid, so he just breathes in, in, in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! A couple things to note: this is where the rating uh, makes itself known (oh god), and contains the usual warnings: (kinda vague) descriptions of eating disordered behavior, casual transphobia (from family member), sexual...content? idk what the hip terminology here is, and ASTROLOGY, because I'm a demon. Really hope you enjoy, and again thanks to Alex for your invaluable insight and eagle-eyes. :)

“Did you get up last night? Or did I dream that? Usually my dreams are weirder, though, so, like, I wasn’t sure, ‘cos you weren’t like, turning into a parrot or anything.”

Louis’ throat aches sharply; it alternates between scraping and pinching. It makes his voice a little deeper and tighter, though, which he’s not too terribly opposed to. “Got up to have a wee. That alright by you?” he teases, nudging Harry in the side. “Did you want to hold my hand? I didn’t realize, darling, I’ll accompany you from now on. I can aim for you if you’d like.”

Harry giggles into his neck, plants a soft kiss there. “I could probably carry you around in my pocket,” he muses. “Or a handbag. Like one of those little dogs socialites have. That’d be nice, I could take you everywhere.”

“That’s a bit bloody offensive, Hazza. You don’t see me going about pointing out your noodly limbs or quadrinips.” He twists one to hear Harry’s yelp.

“You do that all the time. You’re a menace,” Harry whines. “Dunno why you’re my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” Louis sing-songs, which truly strains his voice and chokes him into silence. 

Harry swings a leg across Louis’ so he’s crouched over him, and ducks in for a quick peck before asking, “Are you alright? You sound hoarse. Are you getting ill? D’you want me to make you some Lemsip or something? Tea with honey? Soup? I make great soup.”

Louis groans. “Quit fussing, would you? ‘m alright. Just a sore throat.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Know how you could make it even more sore?”

Harry flushes pink and ducks his head to hide in Louis’ neck. His breath is quick and hot, and Louis can feel his hips shifting minutely where they’re pressed against the meat of his thigh. He arches a little up into it, bending a knee and sliding his foot through the tangled sheets, listening greedily to the little gasp Harry muffles against his throat, the open-mouthed kisses he follows it with.

“Lou,” Harry breathes. He sounds…awed, almost, grinding down in fits and starts like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “Lou, are you…can you…”

“Shh, baby.” He leans up to ghost his lips over the shell of Harry’s ear, registers the full-body shudder it gets him. “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” Harry whimpers, shameless like no one’s ever taught him not to want so openly, not to spread himself out and plead, not to beg. It makes heat flash down Louis’ spine and pool in his gut. 

“Yeah, yeah, Hazza. I’ve got you, shh. I’ve got you.  _ Fuck, _ ” he curses. “God, you’re gorgeous.” He wriggles an arm between them to cup Harry through his shorts, feel the heat of him—he’s hot all over, but it’s sharpened to a point, now, solid and scorching between his thighs. “Yeah?” he asks, digging in a little with the heel of his hand.

Harry whines against Louis’ jaw. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, please, um, that’s lovely, thank you.”

Louis giggles. “Such nice manners. I should phone your mum to commend her on her parenting.”

“Don’t talk about my mum while you’re touching my dick,” Harry groans, as Louis quickens his movements a bit, presses that much harder. “It’ll kill my boner.”

“Seems pretty alive to me,” Louis says, nonchalant. “And who says boner, Haz, honestly?”

“What d’you prefer then? Erection? Hard-on? Stiffy? Meat-wand?”

“Ok, point,” Louis concedes. “Meat-wand?”

“’s in a book I read,” Harry mutters, flushing darker and canting his hips down. “Used to read, er. Romance novels. Sometimes.”

“ _ Romance  _ novels?” Louis pauses his hand, shifts to move his groin a little farther from Harry’s, shivers at the way he’s throbbing.  _ Fuck,  _ he’s barely even touched Harry. He runs a finger up under Harry’s shirt, along his warm belly, and Harry immediately clenches his whole body and giggles.

“Stop, stop,” he gasps. “Not fair, not nice.”

“Romance novels,” Louis repeats. For all Harry’s squirming, he’s not actually cut off Louis’ access to his abdomen, so he continues ghosting over it with feather-light touches that make Harry’s muscles jump, small and lovely. “Tell me more, Harold.”

“ _ No,  _ ‘s embarrassing. Forget I said it.” Harry’s blush is crawling down to his chest in a sweet pink Louis wants to see more of.

“I’ll tickle you until you tell me. Swear to god I will. I’m a man of my word.” He jabs his pointer finger into Harry’s ribs, just below his armpit, earning him a howl of laughter and an elbow to the solar plexus. It’s well worth it. He does it again, and Harry’s properly  _ thrashing.  _

“Stop, fuck, Lou,” he pants. “Alright. My mum had them when I was younger—fuck!” he squeals, trying to get away from Louis’ determined hands. “I read a few, like, under the covers, trying to figure out what it was all about. I dunno. They were weird. One of them had a werewolf.”

“That’s what gets you going, then? Werewolf erotica? Do I need to invest in a costume? ” He moves his hand back toward the waistband of Harry’s pants, teasing but not tickling anymore, and feels the way Harry’s heaving breath starts to even out. “You want me to howl? Or do you want to be the wolf?”

“No,” Harry whines, “absolutely not, no one’s a werewolf. Did you know you can buy, like, mythical dildos, though? Like dragons and tentacles and stuff like that. Like  _ really massive—“ _

“ _ You’re _ killing  _ my  _ boner,” Louis says. He pats Harry on the cheek. “Be quiet and let me suck your cock, okay?”

Harry blinks. “Ok.”

“There's a good lad.” Louis gives him another pat on the cheek. “Lie down, then, would you? Don’t need neck cramps.” Harry hastily obeys, wedging himself between Louis and the wall happy as anything, flushed and panting. He only spreads out a little when Louis crawls over him and settles by his knees to tug at his flies. “Good job you’re not wearing trousers that look like they were painted on today, innit?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He moans softly when Louis rubs his knuckles over him again through thin fabric. “Not like you’re much better, though.”

Louis’ hand doesn’t still, keeps up the slow, teasing pace.  _ Harry thinks your trousers are too tight your trousers are a bigger size than they’ve ever been for Christ’s sake god why have you let yourself go like that imagine if he knew what you did last night imagine how disgusted he’d be if he ever got your clothes off he thinks you’re  _ fat  _ and he’s right.  _

“Lou? You okay? We can take it slower, if you want.” Harry’s fingers lightly brush at his cheek, face concerned.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Just spaced out for a mo, ‘m alright. You?”

“Alright.” Harry grins. His eyes flick down to the rather impressive bulge in his pants. “Thought that was obvious.”

“You big knob,” Louis chides. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, smile stretching at the corners.

Louis scoffs. “Full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “Rather be full of you.”

“Oh my god, that’s foul, Hazza, really,” he giggles, and pushes harder, biting his own lip in sympathy for the way it gets Harry to gnaw on his. “You keep talking like that people are going to take you for a slag. It’s unbecoming.”

“Un-be- _ coming.” _

“You’re not allowed to make puns when I’m about to blow you. It’s a rule.”

“Whose rule?”

“It’s in the student handbook, thought you’d read it.”

“Only the parts about bagging my fit resident advisor.”

“Tsk. Wouldn’t have expected such laziness from you, Hazza.”

“Lou,  _ please,”  _ Harry groans. “’m going to come in my pants, I swear to god.”

“Alright, alright, quit whining. Lift your hips up.” He slaps the right one, not hard, but Harry shudders, eyes falling closed.  _ Oh.  _ That’s probably something he’s going to think about later when he’s trying to focus on coursework. He shucks Harry’s tight little boxer briefs down to his knees; taking them all the way off would be nice, but logistically difficult given Harry’s giraffe legs, and besides, Louis sort of likes the way they function as a bit of a restraint. He likes Harry’s cock better, though.

“Wow,” he says, leaning forward as if to inspect it. “Big knob indeed.”

“ _ Louis _ .” The sound of Harry’s whine is fucking obscene. He’s so fucking needy. Louis loves it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and ducks properly down to lick around the head, curl a palm around the base to hold it still when it jumps. Cocks aren’t pretty, as a matter of course, but he likes Harry’s quite well; he keeps his pubes trimmed and restrains himself from bucking up into Louis’ mouth when he takes him further down, wincing slightly at the bump at the irritated back of his throat but loving the way Harry’s breathing is irregular and his hands settle in Louis’ hair, petting and scratching at his scalp. Harry’s got good blowjob etiquette and Louis can focus on tongue and suction and the way Harry’s thighs tremble and his nostrils flare and his mouth gapes, gasping. 

He hums experimentally around Harry, gets adventurous and gives him the tiniest little scrape of teeth. He scratches at his abdomen and thumbs at his nipples, cups his balls and blows gently over the tip of his cock when he pulls off for air. Harry gasps and writhes at all of it, seems to love everything Louis does. Every noise he makes intensifies the pulsing between Louis’ legs, which is getting hard to ignore the longer it goes on—what has it been, ten minutes? Somewhere around there—and he shifts, restless, on top of Harry’s legs, searches for a little bit of relief and pressure. Once he gets into a steady rhythm— _ down, suck, up, swirl, swallow, down again, squeeze, repeat _ —his mind wanders (why can’t he just stay  _ present  _ while he’s sucking off his lovely cute considerate boyfriend, honestly), goes over last night and what he ate the day before, what he’s going to eat today and what he’s not going to eat to compensate for yesterday’s fuck-up, which, now that he thinks about it, was inevitable considering the rubbish he’s been putting in his body in the last year or so.  _ What did you expect? You could eat whatever and it wouldn’t show? You’ve got to get a handle on this, you’ve got to rein yourself in.  _

It takes him by surprise when Harry’s hand tightens in his hair, trying to pull him off, and Harry gasps, “Fuck, Lou, ‘m gonna come,  _ fuck,”  _ and does before he’s out of Louis’ mouth. It makes Louis choke a little, but he steadies the muscles and swallows through the sting in his raw throat. 

Harry whines until Louis kisses him, and one kiss turns into twenty. The sweat cooling on Harry’s flushed skin should be gross, but Louis finds he doesn’t mind and curls himself around Harry’s back, kissing his shoulder and throwing the duvet over both of them. The fabric’s cool from being pressed against the cold window. It’s nice. The pulsing between Louis’ legs is almost unbearable, but it ebbs, gradually, with each long exhale, his heartbeat steadying.

“That was really nice,” Harry murmurs. “Hang on. Just give me a minute. You sucked my brains out. ‘m trying to uh, put them back in.” A long exhale. “Sorry. I’m getting up. Hang on.” 

_ Maybe you should, maybe— _ “You’re alright, Curly.” Louis keeps his arm tight around Harry’s waist as he attempts to roll over. “’m good. Was hoping we could have a bit of a cuddle, actually.” His voice is even rougher, scraping out like he’s dragging it across gravel with it protesting the whole way.

“Fuck, Lou, your throat. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

His throat’s hurt much more before. A couple lozenges and he’ll be right as rain, as long as he doesn’t shout too much in the next few days. “’s fine.” Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s ear and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Fucking love it, if I’m honest.” He gets a full-bodied shiver in reply.

“I like this so much,” Harry says softly. “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone else. ‘s a bit mad.”

Louis swallows. “I like you, too. Like, the same. So. Mad together?”

Harry grins, wide and beautiful, and shifts even closer to Louis, radiating heat and a sort of weight that’s comforting instead of suffocating. “That’s nice, then, that we agree.”

“That it is, love.” He calls people  _ love  _ a lot, so it doesn’t really mean anything specific to Harry, and that won’t do. “Baby. That’s you, my baby. That alright?”

Harry twists around—he’s beaming, Christ, blinding—and kisses Louis, a little clumsy and wet, but good. Their teeth keep clicking together with the way they’re both smiling, missing each other’s mouths often. It doesn’t make the chattering in Louis’ head turn off; he’s not sure anything would. This is nice, though. 

It’s so, so nice.

*

An incoming Skype call startles Louis out of his doze—he’s gotten drool on his notes for his syntax exam, shit—and he very nearly spills the (flat, half-empty, been-sitting-there-half-a-week) can of Diet Coke next to him onto his laptop. At least the adrenaline wakes him up; his mum’s calling, and he answers quickly.

“Hi,” he says, as soon as the call connects. It just shows a baby picture of Lottie, Louis’ arms around her but his head cut off. “Mum, you’ve forgotten to turn your video on.”

“Hi, love—oh, you’re right, sorry. Why won’t it just do it automatically? Shite program, Barbara showed me FaceTime the other day, it’s much better.” Finally, a pixelated version of his mum appears on screen, giving him a little wave.

He waves back. “Ah, well. What can you do?”

“How’s you? Haven’t talked in a bit.”

“Sorry, school’s been quite stressful, and, er, RA things, you know. I’m getting used to it, though. How’re you? The girls? All getting along alright in school?”

“Good, good, yes, we’re all very well. Dais and Phoebs are really loving P1, and it’s quite a bit more convenient for me. House is still lonely without you, though.” 

“Find that a bit hard to believe, if I’m honest.”

Jay tuts. “How’s school?”

“School’s alright, same old. Bit more work this term.” As much as he misses his family, the constant cramped chaos of the house had been wearying, as was working most days after school and looking after his sisters more often than not. “I miss you all.” He keeps his tone light.

“We miss you too, love,” she says, a little distorted through the speakers. “Are you coming home at half-term? I know we said we’d decide in a bit, but it’s in less than a month. Train tickets are cheaper in advance.” 

He flushes. “Yeah, I’ll get them, thanks.”

She frowns and leans in closer toward her screen. “That’s not what I meant, Lou, I’m happy to pay for them, I just wanted to know if you were coming is all.”

“I know. I’ll get them, though, I’ve got more left over from my student loan than I thought.” 

Jay’s tone brightens. “You should save that, then. Or at least do something fun, go out with your friends.”

He sighs. “It’s al _ right,  _ mum. I haven’t been going out much, actually. I’ll book it later.”

He can almost see the way her brow furrows, even though the image is pixelated. “You’ve not been going out? Is everything alright with your friends? You haven’t fallen out with them, have you?” The rapid-fire questioning is familiar but not terribly welcome. 

He pulls a smile. “’s fine, we haven’t fallen out. Liam and Danielle are back together, did I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t, but I did talk to Karen a couple of weeks ago. She seemed a bit out of the loop, though. Good for them. Everything alright with Liam?”

“Yeah. He’s in the bubble, you know, proper loved up ‘n all that.”

“What about your other friends? Zayn? Eleanor? That boy you mentioned in your Facebook message, too, what was his name?”

“Harry?”

“Right. How’s all of them?”

“They’re fine, mum, everything’s alright.”

A pause. “I feel like you’re not telling me something. What’s on your mind, boo?”

“Nothing!” It comes out louder than he’d meant.

“Lou.”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

“You been eating alright?”

“I’m  _ fine,  _ mum.”

“Don’t snap at me, please. I just worry about you. I’m your mum, I’m allowed, especially after everything. You’re looking a bit thin; it always shows up in your face. You sure you’ve been alright?”

“I’m okay. Promise.” It rolls right off his tongue, no pang of guilt coming with.

“Alright,” she says, after a pause. “I believe you. You’d tell me if you were having trouble again, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Is something else going on, then?”

He shrugs. “Er. I s’pose? Um, you remember how I told you about Harry…”

“Yes, you broke his nose or something?” She laughs.

“I didn’t  _ break  _ it, he just walked into my door.”

She tuts. “Clumsy.” 

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

Louis flushes and squirms in his seat. “Well, er. We’re sort of…going out?”

The yelp his mum lets out just about blows out the speakers on his laptop and Louis winces. And smiles. Maybe both, simultaneously. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to shout. Tell me all about it. Tell me about  _ him _ .”

“I dunno,” Louis says, ducking as his cheeks heat up, suddenly bashful. “Dunno what there is to tell. He’s, um. Nice. Tall. I can, er, send you a picture, if you’d like.”

“That’d be brill, love. So. Nice and tall. Excellent, go on. What’s he studying? Where’s he from? What’s he like?”

“Um, Law, I think, but he says he might switch. He’s from Cheshire. I don’t know,” he whines. “He’s, um. Funny. And charming. Bit weird, but like, in a good way. He takes ages to say anything and tells these really weird, pointless stories.”

“Sounds like a keeper,” she deadpans.

“That’s not—he’s great, alright?”

“No need to get so prickly. He sounds lovely. I’m glad for you.”

“Sorry. I feel weirdly, like, protective, I s’pose.”

“He’s good to you?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

“Then I’m glad, sweetheart. He good about the whole—“ She waves her hand in a circle. “—thing?”

He considers playing dumb but decides against it, knowing full well what she’s talking about when she uses that tone. “I don’t really want to talk about it, mum.”

“I’m just trying to help—“

“I’m alright. He’s cool. We haven’t discussed it, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sweetie, I’m not  _ saying  _ you have to talk about it or, well. I’m not trying to make you feel bad about it. I’m trying  _ really hard,  _ Lou, you know that.”

“Ok.”

“I just want to make sure you’re safe. I don’t know—you’ve made things quite hard on yourself and I worry.”

“I’ve made things quite hard on myself?”

“Don’t get snippy with me, please. I just meant it’s one thing being, er, transgender, and it’s another thing being…gay, and being both at the same time makes things hard for people to understand, I think.”

“Right.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad. Just that it makes things harder, and I worry for you. Men can be dangerous, love.”

“I know that.”

“Okay. I believe you. I trust you, Boo, please don’t be upset with me. I just want you to know you can talk to me about anything, sweetheart.”

“I know. Thanks, mum.”

“I’m really glad you found someone you like, baby. I didn’t mean to make you upset about that.”

“I know. I’m sorry, nevermind.”

“He sounds lovely. I really hope it works out.”

“Me too.” 

“I get the sense that you don’t really want to talk anymore, and that’s fine, just tell me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—“

“You’re not a bother, you just…you shut down, sometimes, when I say something you don’t like, and it hurts me, and if that’s how this conversation’s going to go then I’m going to go help Fizzy with her maths.” 

He blinks, swallows against the thickness building in his throat. “Um. Okay. I’m sorry, I’ll let you go.”

“Hey,” she says, leaning in close. “I love you, Boo. Alright? Give us a ring soon.”

“Love you too.”

“Bye bye.” She waves and ends the call. He books his train tickets for half-term, scarfs down four chocolate-covered Digestives, and spends half an hour on his knees getting them out—chocolate’s always tricky—before returning to his syntax study guide with renewed focus and a guilty twinge in his throat.

*

His and Harry’s first  _ real date  _ is a double with Liam and Danielle to the arcade. Louis does his fringe up in a quiff, and, after a lengthy debate and some consultation with Eleanor, Louis digs a pair of braces—the black ones with white polka dots—out of the bottom of the duffle he’s yet to unpack, stashed under his bed. He’s worried about being overdressed and strips three times before sighing and putting them back on, finally settling on a grey jumper over the shirt and braces and switching boots for white trainers, cuffing his jeans at the bottom. He gives himself an appraising look in the mirror: it’ll do. 

Thankfully, Harry’s both on time and at a similar level of possibly overdressed when they meet at the Union’s basement café, where Liam’s promised to pick them up in a quarter of an hour ( _ may b rning a bit l8 sry sry sry !!!! _ ).

“You look nice,” Louis says, which sounds stupid to his own ears but makes Harry grin and duck his head, his toes pointing inward and hands clasping together behind his back.

“You look amazing,” Harry tells him, totally earnest. It’s Louis’ turn to flush and fidget and pretend he’s not staring at Harry, at the way his t-shirt clings just a bit and the painted-on quality of his jeans on his long, long legs, to pretend he’s not feeling a stomach-twisting mix of want and jealousy. Mostly want. Harry’s really beautiful.

“Is that a pocket square?” he asks, zeroing in on Harry’s blazer. 

“Yep,” Harry says. “I think they’re quirky.”

“Too right,” Louis snorts, but it’s affectionate, and Harry must know because he keeps smiling. “Quirky. That’s you, Curly.”

“I’m an Aquarius,” Harry says, shrugging like  _ what can you do,  _ and points to three uneven squiggly lines on his wrist, one in a collection of poorly-done doodles. They suit Harry, somehow, like the rest of his scattered ink—odd and ill-planned but not looking wrong on him. Even the wrong Temper Trap lyric, which Louis can’t resist teasing him for. ( _ “Of course you’ll stop when you surrender, Haz, that's what it  _ means.  _ Might as well get a big honking chest piece that says the Pope is Catholic.”) _

“Well. That’s a great explanation, innit?” Louis says flatly, raising an eyebrow, like  _ go on.  _

“It  _ is,”  _ Harry insists. “Like, half my chart’s Aquarius. And the other half is Libra.” He lets out a mournful sigh and looks away. 

“What on  _ earth  _ are you talking about, Harold? You do talk some shit, you know.”

Harry ignores him. “Wait, what’s your sign, Lou?”

Louis thinks. “Er. Hang on, I used to know…”

“When’s your birthday?” Harry cuts him off, eyes glinting and body cheated forward like he does when he's properly interested in something. He does it a lot when Louis talks. It's very good for Louis’ ego. He's always liked captivating people. 

“24 th of December,” he says. 

“Christmas Eve?”

“The very same.”

Harry grins. “That’s quite cool.”

“I s’pose it is, yeah.” Louis shrugs, and cups both hands around his tea. They’re cold, almost going a bit grey at the knuckles. He ought to’ve brought gloves for the walk here. “It was alright. Nice to have the whole family around, usually, ‘cos of Christmas.”

“That’s good.”

“Bit shit to get combined presents, if I’m honest.” He feels a little twinge of guilt at the statement, even though he’d whinged shamelessly about it throughout his childhood.

Harry nods. “Absolutely. People are cheapskates. Mine’s February 1 st , and my aunt Carol still tries to send me a  _ Happy Christmas & Happy Birthday  _ gift.”

“Bloody offensive, that.”

“Hmmm.” Harry nods, decisively. “So. December 24 th . You’re a Capricorn.”

Louis nods. That sounds familiar. “I’ve never understood what that means, actually,” he admits. 

“Well,” Harry starts, dragging the word out. He's a dork. “Capricorn is a goat.”

Louis tries to bleat. He doesn't do terribly well. “Flattering, that.”

“At least it’s not a crab,” Harry giggles.

“Which one’s that?”

“Cancer.”

“Ah.” He's pretty sure that's Eleanor.

“Capricorn’s…” Harry furrows his eyebrows and frowns. “Sister sign, I think. ‘s the one right opposite you on the wheel thingy. ‘cos the zodiac’s a circle, like.” He makes a gesture with his pointer finger.

“Right. A circle.” Louis has to exercise serious restraint not to take the piss. 

“Capricorn and Aquarius are next to each other, though.”

“Is that good?”

Harry’s face scrunches thoughtfully. “’s not bad. Adjacent signs are supposed to, like, share some qualities or be like, a bit in tune with each other. Different, though.”

“Great explanation, love.”

“’m getting there.” Harry slurps the last of his smoothie. “So like, Capricorn is, um, usually just described as, like, hardworking.”

“Goats  _ are _ known for their work ethic, after all. Industrious creatures.”

“I think it’s a sea-goat, actually, whatever that is. I guess it’s, like, a perseverance thing, I dunno really. I haven’t known that many Capricorns, to be honest with you. Mum’s a Libra. Gem’s a Sagittarius. Not a lot of earth in the family. Capricorn is earth, by the way.  And I’m, like, all air. Everything’s in Aquarius and Libra, like I said.”

Louis frowns. “Everything? I thought it was just the one?”

“I mean, usually people only talk about their sun signs, which is, er, where the sun is when you’re born.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Yeah. So, like, it matters where the sun is, ‘cos the sun is supposed to be like, your best self, or something, but it matters where the other planets are too. Do you know what time you were born?”

“Not off the top of my head. I can ask my mum.”

“That’d be cool. I have this app on my phone—“ Harry taps the screen a few times and shows Louis a circle with multicolored lines criss-crossing, all clustered at the bottom. “—where you can put all that in and it gives you your birth chart. I mean. If you want.”

“That’d be cool, yeah.” Louis lays a hand atop Harry’s where it’s twitching a bit on the table. It’s smooth and warm. “You’re like a furnace, I swear.”

Harry grins, dimpling. “Are you calling me hot?”

“Maybe,” Louis drawls. A rapid buzzing on his thigh makes him start. “Ah. That’ll be Liam, then. C’mon, Curly.”

*

The arcade’s fun. Loads of fun, actually. He and Harry do a few rounds of Dance Dance Revolution together; despite Harry’s long limbs and overall lack of coordination, he’s  _ very  _ good at it. Louis’ flushed and sweaty by the end, and he’s sort of embarrassed, but Harry just drags him over to the machine where you drop tokens in and try to push the existing ones off.

“It’s a scam, Haz,” Louis huffs. “It just eats your tokens.”

Harry pouts. “I’m good at it.”

“Sure you are.” Louis pats him gently on the shoulder. 

“I’ll show you.” Harry lengthens his strides, so Louis has to half-jog to keep up with him.

Apparently Harry’s just as competitive as Louis, then, if less obvious about it. As they spend more and more time together, he’s discovering all these things about Harry he wouldn’t have expected, and finds himself delighted at each one, like he’s unwrapping gifts that he hadn’t been expecting, ones that hadn’t been on his list but just hadn’t realized he’d wanted, hadn’t thought to ask for. The way Harry bristles at being told he can’t do is a new one, and really lovely. 

They arrive at the machine, and Harry jangles his cup of tokens. “Watch and learn,” he sing-songs. Louis raises an eyebrow and settles his weight on one hip, gesturing  _ go on. _

On his third try, Harry causes an  _ avalanche  _ of tokens.

“Wow,” Louis says, genuinely awed. “Alright. Point to you, Haz, very well done.”

Harry grins as he scoops his tokens into the cup. “I came to win,” he says, low and serious.

“Like I didn’t?” Louis scoffs, and then looks around. “Where do you s’pose Liam and Danielle have run off to? Might be in the loo, now that I think of it.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Maybe.” Harry gives a little shrug and scans the room, rising up on his tiptoes and wobbling a bit. Louis steadies him around the middle. “Oh, wait, there’s Liam. He’s at the basketball thingy.”

“You any good at shooting baskets? You’re quite tall.”

Harry grimaces. “Unfortunately not. ‘m good at table tennis, though.”

Louis snorts. “You would be.”

“Hey,” Harry whines. “Just ‘cos you’re all sporty—“

“Don’t want to hear the end of that sentence, Hazza. I am not  _ sporty.  _ I’m just determined.”

Harry smirks. “Capricorn.”

“Shut it, you.”

“Really. Was there one sport you played in school you weren’t good at?”

Louis tilts his head a little to the right. “Er. I’m not sure, actually. I didn’t like field hockey, but I was good at it, I suppose.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow. “Field hockey?”

_ Shit. _ Right. Girls’ sport. “Weird, I know, dunno, my school had everyone play it. ‘s proper violent, really, should outlaw it altogether.”

“Mhm,” Harry agrees. “Gem used to play, she was always coming home with these massive bruises on her shins. Mum called the coach once and she was so embarrassed she didn’t talk to her for like, three days.”

“I was also rubbish at badminton, which is okay ‘cause badminton’s rubbish.”

Harry pouts. “I played badminton.”

“And it's a mark of what a tolerant and generous person I am that I'm willing to accept that part of your past,” Louis says loftily, his poker face twitching at the way Harry collapses into giggles. 

“It is a bit rubbish. I'd still kick your arse at it, though.”

“We’ll see.” Louis arches an eyebrow and shakes his cup. “We going to use these tokens, then? I’ve got my eye on the skateboard. Although it’s a scam, too. You’d have to spend, like, thousands.”

“Shoot for the moon, I s’pose.”

“What about you?” He bumps Harry’s hip. “Got your sights set on anything?” 

“I quite like the look of that bear, there.” He points to a medium-sized Tatty Teddy holding a big red heart.

“A Tatty Teddy? Really?”

Harry shrugs. “I like them.”

“Didn’t say you shouldn’t. Just surprised, is all.” Harry’s  _ sweet  _ in so many ways, soft and lovely and seemingly rather unconcerned about his own masculinity. Louis doesn’t quite know what to think about it, but it’s part of what makes Harry so amazing, and Louis is of the opinion that Harry is the most amazing person in the entire world. 

He ends up putting ten more pounds than he had said he would into the token machine, but he gets enough tickets, and maybe it’s dumb—Liam raises his eyebrows a little as Louis marches over to the prize counter with his arms full of tickets, looks like he’s about to say something before Danielle shushes him—but Harry goes flushed and squirmy and downright giddy when Louis hands him the soft toy, and he cuddles it the whole ride home whilst Louis slings an arm around his shoulders, brushes his fingers over Harry’s bicep and tangles the other hand in his curls, softly scratching and soaking up his contented hums and the way they turn into little snores ten minutes in.

He has to nudge Harry awake when Liam pulls up outside their building. “C’mon, love,” he coaxes, ignoring Liam laughing under his breath. “Let’s get you in your own bed.”

“Wanna sleep in your bed,” Harry says. “Like it better.”

It makes Louis’ heart swell so big he doesn’t even care that there are two other people in the car—it’s not that he’s private, exactly, or even minds PDA, just that he’s never had the opportunity, really, so it’s new, and it’s amazing, the way Harry just announces that he picks  _ Louis,  _ that he wants to be around  _ Louis,  _ that he holds Harry’s attention. He feels a little high on it.

“Okay,” he replies, once he realizes he hasn’t said anything for a beat too long. “Back to mine, then, up you get.” He misses Harry’s warmth when the big lump of boy uncurls and stumbles a little getting out of the car, and Louis waves Liam off rather more hastily than he might usually, letting Harry lean on him even though it’s a bit of a strain. He likes it a lot, more than he can really put into words.

*

“Lunch?” Liam asks, panting a little with his hands on his bent knees. His white shorts are smeared with brown and green. Harry told him some trick for getting out stains the other day, but he can’t remember what it was; he was too busy trying to convince Harry that it was  _ totally unnecessary  _ that he do Louis’ laundry, only to be cheerfully ignored whilst Harry shared helpful tips and folded t-shirts. 

Louis’ stomach grumbles as if to spite him. His ribs ache and protest after being pressed down all night and all morning and his lungs are burning. He feels a little faint. He ought to eat. Something in him recoils at the idea of eating in front of Liam, but it’s passed too quickly and too indistinctly for him to examine it. 

“Sure thing, yeah,” he answers, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. “Hope the lovely staff of the dining hall don’t mind our stink.”

“I meant after a shower,” Liam says, and crouches to pick up the ball where it’s snagged in the net at the end of the pitch. “Y’alright? You look a little shaky. Are you dehydrated?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. See you in half an hour, then?”

“Yeah. Are you sure you’re alright? You’re not feeling weak or dizzy or anything—“

“I’m  _ fine,  _ Leemo. Are you finished physiology-ing me?”

“I’m serious, Lou.”

“Okay, mum.”

Liam grins. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself, Big Payno.”

Liam looks over both shoulders, presumably to check if anyone heard that. “You promised to stop calling me that,” he grumbles. 

Louis grins, and darts over to pinch Liam’s bum. “ _ Big Payno,  _ you’ve known me since primary. Did you really expect me to keep that promise? Honestly.”

“True,” Liam admits, shaking his head and smiling. “Good game,” he says. “Nice to play with you again. ‘s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Ah, well, you’ve been all honeymoon-y with Danielle, didn’t want to intrude.”

“You always want to intrude.”

“I just like to be  _ in the know,  _ Liam.”

“Nosey.” He doesn’t move quick enough to avoid Louis tugging his shorts down to his knees. “Louis!”

Louis jogs away, cackling. His legs feel a little unsteady under him; he chalks it up to not having done anything particularly athletic in a while and resolves to spend more time on the pitch and lay even further off the rubbish food. 

He promptly breaks the second part of his resolution when he gets back to his dorm and finds his bed made and a note on his pillow that says  _ got to go to study group ): xx H.  _ The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, and when he comes back to himself, he lets the self-loathing sit for a few moments before setting about fixing it. 

Fortunately, there’s next to no one milling about the halls, and nobody in the loo, so he doesn’t bother trying to be quiet; he lets the hacks and coughs ring loudly, echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears. 

Once he’s taken care of his fuck-up (wiped down the toilet, washed his hands, washed his face, chewed three pieces of gum, binned all the wrappers, taken the rubbish out to the communal one, and drank a bottle of water), notices it’s well past when he said he’d meet Liam and curses. He just wants to go back to bed. He definitely doesn’t want to sit through a meal with Liam with blotchy cheeks and reddened knuckles. 

_ forgot i had an essay due tmrw, got to stay in sry!! good game mate _

It’s not exactly a lie, he reasons. He does have an essay due tomorrow, and he should start it now, so he does, gets a few paragraphs down that don’t make much sense. It’s shit, but it’s something, so he gets back in bed and scrolls aimlessly through Instagram, which inevitably leads to backreading his own, which inevitably leads to going through his camera roll and looking at old photos he hasn’t been able to get rid of, which inevitably leads to zooming in and out on his thighs and stomach over and over until he has to pull the duvet over himself so he can’t see anything. 

As if psychic, Harry texts him only a few seconds after.  _ miss you can I come over? _

_ Pls xx  _ he texts back.  _ Missed u this morning x  _ he adds, and then groans at how needy and weird that sounds.

His phone buzzes again.  _ me tooooooooo xxxxxxx  _

_ come kiss me in person then _

_ omw! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx _

Louis snorts. His boyfriend ( _ boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend)  _ is weird. Weird and lovely. 

“I counted,” Harry announces when he walks in. “I owe you twenty three kisses.” He smiles into Louis’ mouth on the first and bites it on the sixteenth; they’re both gasping by the twenty-third.

*

“Alright.” The circle Harry’s pointing to has all its lines clustered on the right side, and a bunch of symbols on the outer ring. “This is your chart. The little orange circle is the sun, that’s in Capricorn.”

“Right.”

“Your moon is over here—“ He moves his finger to the bottom of the circle. “—in Leo.”

“That’s the lion, right?” He’d taken Latin for a bit in school and had been quite good at it. Not good enough to go for an A-level, but he remembers some things.

“Right.”

“What does it mean that my moon’s there, then?” He’s never paid much thought to any of this, but the seriousness and enthusiasm with which Harry’s been explaining things to him is infectious, and Louis’ always liked learning new things, as long as they’re interesting,  _ which Geography hadn’t been,  _ he thinks,  _ and that teacher hadn’t known shit and had bad hair. _

“Lou? You spaced out a bit.”

He blinks. “Sorry. What?”

“Alright, so, your moon sign is, like…what you start with, you know? Before you build towards your sun sign, you’ve got the, er, toolbox, so to speak, to begin with, which is your moon. It’s, like, your instincts and reactions and stuff. Sort of your negative side but not necessarily, just like, the more, er, emotional self.”

“Okay.”

“Um, hang on, I have to check.” Harry taps at his phone for a moment and furrows his brow as he scrolls. “Leo moon is, like, um…attention-seeking?”

“Well that doesn’t sound anything like me,” Louis drawls, rolling his eyes and flipping his fringe out of his face before sighing and looking away.

Harry giggles. “Definitely not.”

“Arse.” Louis pushes his shoulder. “So. Tell me more.”

“It’s not like, just that, it’s more that you’re the center of things. You draw people’s attention, naturally. That’s true, definitely.” He flushes a little. “Um. Lunar Leo is a bit of a drama queen?” 

Louis huffs. “I  _ am  _ an actor, Harold.”

“I know!” Harry giggles. “The moon in Leo probably helps with that. Um, it’s not, like, a bad thing. Like it’s not like you necessarily try and cause trouble or anything, just that, with the moon in Leo you’re, er, prone to um. Making scenes. And sulking.”

Ouch. “Okay,” he says. “Maybe.”

“And, er, generally want to be, like, cared for, when they’re upset, but won’t say so.” He glances at Louis. “Is that true?”

Louis squirms. “It's possible,” he hedges. “This is all a bit close to home, if I’m honest.”

Harry’s face falls. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s like…it’s just fun…”

“I was joking, Hazza,” Louis says gently, and shifts a little against Harry’s middle so he can reach to scratch at his hair. “’s interesting. And true. I’m self-aware.”

“You are,” Harry agrees. “Um. So. Your ascendant is Gemini. That makes a load of sense, actually.”

“Hm?” 

Harry points at a spot on the right of the chart. “So the ascendant is kind of the image you project to the world, or like, your approach, or, um, lens, I s’pose, to the external world. It’s sort of like a first impression, or a glamour or something, but not quite.”

“Isn’t Gemini the one everyone hates?” Louis wrinkles his nose.

“Geminis are misunderstood,” Harry insists. “It’s unfair.”

“Alright, love,” Louis soothes, raking his nails lightly over Harry’s scalp. He’s got a bit of dandruff going on. 

“Anyway, so like, Capricorn is a bit of a lonely sign, in general.”

“Loner goat.”

“Right. And that’s like…not you.”

Louis shrugs. “Sometimes.” His mind flits briefly to all those conversations he’d had to have, the  _ I’m sorry I got all cold and weird and then disappeared for months, it wasn’t you, it was me,  _ to his mum crying  _ because you won’t talk to me.  _

“Well, yeah. I mean, you know better than I do. But like, you’re so good with people, and like, magnetic. Er, that might be the Leo, as well, but like, being so good in social situations and like, being able to get along with loads of people is a Gemini thing. Generally quite chatty and outgoing.”

Louis snorts. “Alright. So that’s where the gobshite comes from.”

“You’re not a gobshite,” Harry says. “You’re really interesting and you say interesting things.” He sounds weirdly intense, and Louis flushes under the praise.

“I talk too much.” He goes too far, sometimes, gets too bitchy and doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.

“I like listening to you talk.”

Louis plants a kiss to Harry’s hair, just above his ear. “Thanks, love. You too. Even though it’s a bit like listening to a sloth if a sloth could speak.”

Harry giggles. “Shut  _ up,”  _ he says, drawing out the syllables.

“You’re not denying it.”

“Nope.” The smile is clear in his voice.

“Alright, so apparently it’s in the stars that I’m a drama queen and quite, um, chatty. That’s settled. I shan’t be working on either of those things from now on, seeing as they’re my cosmic destiny.”

“Hmm,” Harry agrees. “You want to hear about your other planets?”

“I’m a bit overwhelmed, if I’m honest,” Louis murmurs, planting a series of kisses to the side of Harry’s head. “Maybe another time.” He scoots down the bed to breathe over Harry’s neck and love the way he squirms.

“I know the feeling.” Harry’s voice has gone a tick deeper, rougher and he’s started shifting continuously. Louis feels a bit high with power every time he gets Harry riled like this.  _ I did that,  _ he thinks, taking in the gasp Harry lets out when he bites down on his throat, gentle but definitely there.

“More,” Harry groans. And that—that’s interesting. Experimentally, Louis digs his teeth in a bit harder, and Harry moans, long and low, socked feet scrabbling on the sheets. Alright. Louis can work with that. He holds Harry by the shoulders and bites again, sucking a deep mark just below the wing of Harry’s jaw, prominent but probably able to be covered up with artful hair arrangement or accessorizing. Harry goes wild for it.

“You like it to hurt a little, huh?” Louis breathes into his ear, drinks in the frantic nod. It should be a little embarrassing, how worked up Harry gets, he reasons, but it’s just unbearably hot, and he doesn’t seem ashamed of it. Louis’ not about to tell him he should be. 

He shifts down to wrestle with Harry’s flies; a big hand halts him. He’s entranced for a moment by the bob of Harry’s throat, so sharp and masculine right next to his baby face, sweet smile and dimples. Harry’s this…Harry’s  _ incredible,  _ he’s the most attractive person Louis’ ever seen, but he makes Louis’ breath hitch with these contrasts, sharp and soft, the way he holds feminine and masculine in both hands and doesn’t seem to be perturbed by negotiating the space between the two. He’s…Louis’ a bit in awe of him, and also unbearably jealous, and also loves him unbearably much, which is a thought that should perturb him more. It doesn’t.

He swallows around the lump of pure  _ feeling  _ lodged in his throat. “Are you alright?” He asks, around it. Harry hasn’t stopped him before, but in fairness, Louis’ always asked; he’d felt okay to undo the button, but maybe not. He worries at his lip, heart pounding faster and cold at the prospect that he’s fucked up.

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding like he can read the worry on Louis’ face. He probably can; Louis’ never been good at concealing his emotions. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I’m great. Fantastic.” He tilts his head and offers a crooked grin, one dimple popping. 

“Good.” Their hands are still frozen on the waistband of Harry’s jeans. 

“I was wondering,” Harry says, in that slow, syrupy way of his, “if I could, er. Do you?”

Shit.  _ Shit _ . Alright. He’d been sort of hoping for a natural opportunity to come out (or whatever, there’s no good words,  _ disclose  _ makes him want to vomit) to Harry, but this particular scenario was also a nightmare one. Has been a nightmare one, before ( _ what the fuck, you trying to pull one over on me?).  _

Okay. He’s got to say something. He runs through some options in his head—none of them sound good, he’s not sure he could push any out of his mouth.  _ I used to be a girl  _ is cliché and inaccurate, for the most part. He’s still not very good at saying the word  _ transgender,  _ especially if Harry ( _ small village, little exposure to LGBT community _ ) doesn’t know what he means. Especially if Harry climbs off him in disgust and applies for a housing transfer and never talks to Louis again.  _ Harry’s good, though,  _ he thinks,  _ he wouldn’t,  _ but the fear makes his chest constrict.

“Lou?” Harry’s gaze is properly concerned, now, his wide mouth turned down at the corners and the line between his brows as deep as Louis’ ever seen it. He gentles a palm over Louis’ shoulder, hopefully not noticing the slight, momentary flinch before Louis pushes back into it and tilts his head to be closer to Harry’s hand. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to.”

A deep breath. Harry’s good. Not going to freak out, most likely. “Um. I just…er, like. You didn’t do anything wrong, just.” He shrugs. “Got some, um, issues with my body.” An understatement—the other stuff he’s absolutely not ready to tell Harry, not now, not ever. He’s not ashamed of being trans, just cautious, but his weight shit is another matter entirely.

“Okay,” Harry says, still rubbing with one thumb. It’s soothing. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I  _ want  _ to,” Louis bites out, frustrated at himself for the way he’s beating about the bush. “Just, like. Should let you know before you get my kit off, I might, um, not be what you’re expecting?” He winces at how high and quick his voice goes.

Harry’s thumb doesn’t stop moving. “Okay. How do you mean?” His eyes flick around Louis’ face— _ soft jaw slim neck no Adam’s apple delicate features— _ and then settle back on Louis’ eyes.

“I’m trans,” Louis blurts suddenly, shutting his eyes hard. “Which means—“

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t sound angry or shocked. “I know what that means.” He pauses. “I didn’t actually fall off the turnip truck yesterday, Lou, despite what you might think.” He’s got a cheeky smile on when Louis squints his eyes open. His thumb is still stroking, and his other hand tentatively comes up to cup Louis’ cheek, flushed and so hot that Harry’s always-burning palm feels cool in comparison. 

“Oh. Well. That’s good.” Louis’ words feel clumsy in his mouth, and he blinks dumbly at Harry’s open, lovely face.

“So just to clarify,” Harry says, slowly, “you’re, er, female to male? Is that the right term? I’m sorry, I’m not, like, sure what words to use.”

“That’s fine,” Louis half-whispers, and clears his throat. His whole body feels weak and tingling, like he’s only about half-there. “Um. Yeah. That’s good. Um. Trans man is okay, too, but I don’t like man, really, so. I dunno. But yeah. Born a girl and all that. Got girl bits.”

Harry frowns a little, considering. “Are they girl bits if they’re on you, though? ‘cos you’re not a girl.”

Louis very suddenly wants to collapse and sob—he’d known, logically, that Harry would be understanding, would at the very least let him down gently, but he’s just…he’s saying the perfect things, Louis can’t bear it. “You’re being so perfect,” he murmurs. “Stop it.”

“Nope.” Harry grins, and pulls Louis toward him a bit. “Here. Your arms are shaking.” They are; it’s a relief to slump onto Harry’s chest and fist his hand in Harry’s t-shirt, let Harry rub up and down the length of his back with both hands. “You’re amazing.” His tone is completely serious.

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s shirt, drooling a little and muffled by the fabric.

“No need to thank me. You feeling alright?”

“Relieved,” Louis admits. “I had myself, er, a bit worked up over that. So.”

“Oh.” Harry pauses for a long time. “I’m sorry you thought I wouldn’t take it well.” He sounds just a little hurt, as though he’s trying not to be.

“Oh my god,” Louis groans, and forces himself up on his elbows to look Harry in the eye. “How are you real? Are you quite sure you’re not some kind of AI? Programmed to be, like, perfectly understanding and, like, calm. And fit,” he adds, to make Harry smile.

“It’s all the Libra,” Harry mumbles. “Hard to throw me off.” He kisses Louis’ cheek, gentle. “And I think you’re incredibly fit and I’m very lucky to call you my incredibly fit boyfriend.”

Louis can’t do anything but kiss him, hard and needy, cupping his jaw and running frantic fingers through his hair, soaking up how Harry whines under his breath when Louis’ fingers catch at a knot and pull. 

“Jesus,” he pants against Harry’s neck, biting down between breaths. “’s like going nought to sixty in like. Ten seconds. Ridiculous.”

“Me too,” Harry says, hips bucking up in fits and starts. “God. You’re so fucking hot.”

“You too,” Louis breathes, kissing his way up Harry’s throat and back to his mouth. It gets sharp and hungry in a matter of minutes; Louis tugs at Harry’s lower lip and bites viciously before letting it go and panting into Harry’s lush open mouth. There’s just the faintest scratch of stubble—hardly noticeable, really, patchy and light—roughing up Louis’ mouth when he kisses his top lip and jaw, just enough to feel, but not enough to leave him stingy and raw tomorrow. The love bite Harry sucks into the join of his neck and shoulder, though, pushing Louis’ t-shirt aside and probably stretching out the collar to get at the skin, well. That feels like he might feel it tomorrow. Harry presses a gentle kiss over the mark when he’s done, like an apology, or a promise.

“Hey,” Harry breathes, after. His hands transition from gripping—Louis hadn’t noticed they were, in the moment, but he mourns the loss of sensation—to stroking down Louis’ sides again, like he’s soothing a frightened animal. Louis bristles internally. “D’you want to take this further? ‘cos I’m about to come in my pants.” He gives a little sheepish grin that goes a long way toward lowering Louis’ hackles at the idea that Harry might think he had to treat him with special care because of his gender shit.

But, he reflects, staring at Harry’s sweet face, blown pupils and bashful expression, maybe it’s just because it’s Harry, and Harry is careful, as a rule. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to let Harry be careful with him. Something in him even feels warm at the prospect. Safe.

“Um,” he says, dumbly, still staring at Harry’s face, upturned and expectant, registering the minute circling shift of his hips under Louis’. “Well. Can’t have that, can we, baby?”

The way Harry squirms at being called  _ baby  _ is probably the only thing Louis wants to see for the rest of his life. Except then he’d miss out on all the other beautiful ways Harry reacts and emotes and exists. It’s a very ridiculous thing to think about a boy he met barely a month ago. He doesn’t give a shit.

“Please,” Harry whimpers, after another long moment of Louis just resting atop his thighs and looking at him, knowing he looks awed and stupid, kiss-drunk and struck dumb. 

“Yeah,” Louis decides, because getting Harry off is another one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, “yeah, baby, I’ll take care of you. You want that?” Louis’ not really used to taking charge. It’s heady. He really fucking likes it, and apparently so does Harry, because he turns his head to the side to groan into the pillow and takes one hand off Louis’ back to throw a forearm over his face.  _ Hang on, is he— _

“Haz,” Louis says, “are you biting your own arm?”

Sheepishly, Harry nods, and releases it. There’re little pink indents in the flesh and the slight sheen of spit. He looks like he’s about to apologize.

“That’s so fucking hot, love,” Louis murmurs, and hops off Harry’s legs so he can get to work at his jeans. “C’mon. Off, off.”

“Romance is dead,” Harry deadpans, trying to hide the gasp he lets out when Louis’ fingers tease over his waistband.

“Yeah? You want romantic, baby?” Louis simpers. “Rose petals on the bed and candles everywhere? You strike me as the candle type.”

Harry licks his lips. “Love ‘em. I have some in my room, actually, I could go get them.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “With that monster in your trousers? And candles are contraband, Hazza, you should know better.”

“Oops.” Harry’s smile is cheeky instead of helpless now. “You going to write me up?”

“Fucking watch me,” Louis growls, and yanks Harry’s jeans halfway down his thighs. “You could set the whole building on fire.”

“Should I not tell you about the incense, then?” Harry bends his knees to peel the denim down his calves and pull off his socks. “Or the— _ ah— _ kettle with no automatic shutoff?”

“Shut  _ up, _ ” Louis snaps, leaning down to kiss Harry’s mouth hard, almost bruising. “God, and  _ I’m  _ the one who talks shit. Do  _ not  _ say ‘make me,’ by the way. I’ll walk out right now, I swear.” He slots a knee between Harry’s thighs and pushes up, swallows Harry’s sharp exhale, the needy little whine he buries in Louis’ neck when he grinds the heel of his hand against him.

He pulls him off fast and rough, can’t bring himself to muck about with teasing or denial, just gripping tight and sure like he’s learning Harry loves it. Harry catches his wrist and brings Louis’ hand up to clean off his palm and fingers with his  _ tongue,  _ sticking it out the same way he does to eat, and  _ god,  _ that shouldn’t have the right to be that hot, and now he’s probably going to think of this every time he sees Harry eat anything and die young from excessive stress.

“Can I,” Harry asks, gaze flicking from Louis’ eyes to his mouth and downward and then back up again. “Um, can I do you?” The question calls Louis’ attention to the way he’s pulsing frantically, unconsciously grinding down against Harry’s leg for some kind of relief from the overwhelming feeling of  _ want.  _ God. He feels himself clench around nothing and slick up his pants, and his cheeks burn with how much he wants Harry’s hands on him. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Um. Yeah. Please. That would be, um. That would be lovely.”

“Okay.” Harry’s breathing has hardly slowed at all. “What do you like?”

The question takes Louis aback, a bit. No one’s asked. The fact that Harry just did shouldn’t make him want to cry, but it does. Hopefully his rapid blinking can be chalked up to being turned on. “Um. I—I don’t, um, really know?”

Harry’s brow furrows, going stormy. “Really?”

The back of Louis’ neck feels hot and prickly. “Mostly been on the giving end since I’ve been here. Had a boyfriend or two in secondary, but, um. You know how teenage boys are.”

Harry looks offended for a second before seeming to shake it off. “Oh. That’s unfortunate. Can I…er, can I ask, like, what do you, um, what do you do for yourself?

Louis is quite sure he’s the color of a tomato, the pounding of his pulse only getting stronger. “Uh. Basic, y’know. Nothing fancy.”

Harry doesn’t push it; bless him. “Okay. Can I lick you out?”

Louis blinks. “Oh. Um. Yeah. That’d be brilliant.” One of the boys he’d dated way back when had done that once and been incredibly impressed with himself after Louis got bored and sore after two minutes and moaned exaggeratedly and made his thighs quake. 

“’m good at it,” Harry says, tone bright like he’s got the answer to a difficult maths problem or something. “Promise.” His dimples pop.

Louis groans. “You’re so  _ weird.” _

“Hey. I don’t do anything weird,” Harry insists, face suddenly serious.

“Alright, baby, if you say so.” Louis giggles. Laughing during sex is new, too. Loads of new things today; he’s having trouble keeping up.

Harry hums under his breath as he carefully—not slowly, but carefully—unties the string of Louis’ joggers and slips them down his hips, flicking his eyes up to Louis’ every few seconds to check it’s okay. When he can’t get them any farther because Louis is still kneeling above him, he pouts.

“Didn’t think that one through, then?” He’s talking so quickly his tongue feels clumsy, like it can’t keep up. He might be a little nervous. Maybe.

Harry hooks his arms around Louis’ waist and flips them over, knocking a little bit of breath out of Louis’ lungs as he lands on his back. “You alright?” Harry checks. He sounds like he wants to know the answer.

Louis swallows. “Yeah. I’m. I’m good, okay?” He lays a hand on Harry’s cheek. “I’m good. You don’t…I mean. I trust you.”

The way Harry beams at that is gorgeous. “You too. Just want to make sure.” His long fingers hook into Louis’ waistband and pull his joggers off the rest of the way. Goose pimples run up his legs when Harry brushes softly up his calves.

“You’re lovely,” he murmurs, and then frowns. “I mean, er. Handsome. And rugged.”

Louis snorts. “Thanks, love.”

“I mean it,” Harry insists.

“Okay.” Louis’ throat feels dry. 

Tentatively, Harry slides his hands up past the joins of Louis’ knees, over the insides of his thighs, light enough that it tickles and makes the fine, light hair covering them stand on end. “Tease,” Louis murmurs, because he feels he has to say something.

“Can I?” Harry asks, brushing the tip of his finger just under the hem of Louis’ boxer briefs. Louis stares at the way his hips puff out above the waistband, panic flashing cold. He nods mutely and closes his eyes when Harry brushes two knuckles over the front of his pants. He must be able to feel how damp they are, but he—thankfully—doesn’t comment. Louis can’t see him but he feels the burn of his gaze on his face as he presses incrementally harder, making Louis squirm and his breath hitch.

The sensation of warm breath snaps his eyes open. Harry’s just—nuzzling, dragging his slightly open mouth back and forth across the cotton, and after flicking his gaze up towards Louis, he presses an open-mouthed kiss, pushes a little harder, nose nudging the ridge of bone. The squeal Louis lets out is humiliating. Harry just keeps doing the same thing, his tongue snaking out to press, hands working their way up Louis’ thighs to press them open. He panics for a moment at how Harry can feel how soft and fleshy they are on the insides, but he’s—he’s going out of his mind, really, unable to focus on anything but the heat of Harry’s mouth and the slight tickle of his hair and  _ god,  _ how Harry  _ looks,  _ how he’s not pulling away but moving in.

Questioning eyes look up at him when Harry’s index fingers reach the waistband of Louis’ pants.  _ Fuck. God. Yeah.  _ He’s probably going to go mad if he doesn’t get skin-to-skin contact soon.  _ Jesus.  _ He feels himself get impossibly slicker, probably soaking into the sheets below him. He gives a jerky nod, muttering  _ yeah yeah yeah  _ and not sure if Harry can hear him, but there’s cool air on his sweaty skin and the pants get discarded somewhere, he’ll probably have to dig around for them later, and Harry’s hands are back on his thighs and spreading him open, gently. The scrutiny feels hot and terrifying, Harry just  _ looking  _ for a moment. When he looks up at Louis’ face, his eyes are so dark there’s barely any iris left, shiny like his swollen mouth. God. Harry’s very into this. That’s the hottest thing ever.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Don’t tease, Haz.” He winds fingers into Harry’s slightly sweaty curls, gets a good grip and gives a little tug that’s apparently enough urging for Harry to dive right in, press his face against Louis and breathe in harshly through his nose while dragging his tongue in and up.

Louis’ not proud of the choked wail he lets out, but it spurs Harry on. He licks long and slow, gentle at first, nose pressed into the reddish curls—should he have shaved? Is that what Harry likes? He’ll ask later, although Harry would probably be too sweet to tell him—and mouth burning hot. The intermittent slurps and sucks are  _ obscene,  _ and Harry’s face is probably getting soaked, and he flushes bright red at that thought but Harry’s just going for it, so he must not mind, humming under his breath as he teases his tongue in grinding circles.

“Fuck, yeah,” Louis breathes out, suddenly aware of how his thighs are clenched around Harry’s head and probably uncomfortable. He makes a conscious effort to let them fall to either side. “Fuck. God. Please.” All of his body feels floaty and tense at the same time, wound tight and overwhelmed.

Harry’s right hand releases its firm grip on Louis’ thigh, which makes Louis open his eyes; Harry’s staring back at him, which makes his cheeks burn—he must look so desperate, flushed and sweaty and gasping—and he raises an eyebrow whilst dragging the tip of one finger lower, slick and slow. It’s a question.

He’s not actually sure—he’s never been a huge fan, never really gone for it by himself—but Harry makes him want so much, want whatever Harry wants, trust in his ability to make him go out of his mind when his mouth’s only been on him for a minute at most. “Yeah,” he breathes. He wants it. Harry’s fingers are long and thick but graceful. Piano player’s hands. Louis’ never had them, can’t play Rachmaninoff or Beethoven, which he shouldn’t be thinking about as Harry slowly slides a finger inside him, but. He’s always had issues paying attention.

It’s—weird. Strange. Nice, but not as nice as Harry’s slow, firm licks, the hot pressure of his mouth. The finger crooks, hooking upwards and pressing, and that just feels stranger. Harry must be able to feel how he squirms away from it a bit and gentles, pressing deep in instead of up. It’s better, just seems to intensify how good Harry’s mouth feels. A second fingertip nudges up against him, and that’s definitely painful when it presses harder, too much and making him want to scoot up the bed to get away.

Harry’s watching his face; he doesn’t push any harder, and takes his mouth away— _ no no no— _ to glance up at Louis and say, “Sorry.” The first finger just stays where it is, shallow and gentle, and Louis’ gasping at the renewed fervor of Harry’s tongue, the way his lips purse and suck, and there’s gorgeous pressure building, spreading from his abdomen down his legs and he gives up on not squeezing Harry’s head between them, on keeping his groans quiet, on not yanking Harry’s hair harshly and squeezing his eyes shut against the feeling. He whites out when he comes. That doesn’t happen, ever. It goes on for fucking  _ ages,  _ too, waves and waves that he bucks his hips and bites the fleshy bit under his thumb and gasps through. Harry just follows him, squeezes every possible bit of pleasure out of his thrashing body.

It takes a while for his breath to come back, to register the feel of Harry’s tongue gentling and then stopping, the tickle of his hair as he turns his head side to side and presses wet kisses to the tendons that jut out at the join of his groin and thighs. 

“Good?” Harry asks. He sounds a little smug, but also like he’s genuinely asking. As if he needs to. Christ. 

“Fucking amazing,” Louis groans, trying to calm down the heaving of his chest. The whole lower half of Harry’s face is shiny as he presses hard kisses to Louis’ thighs, subtly trying to wipe some of the slick off. It makes him squirm; embarrassing but hot and sweet. Which is a good summation of Harry, generally. 

“Good,” Harry says. His joints crack audibly as he crawls up the bed—the shifting weight calls Louis’ attention to the  _ huge  _ wet spot under his bum—and hovers over him without making him feel crowded. It’s a gift of Harry’s: making his long, well-muscled body feel unimposing. His lips are sour and strange when he ducks down to kiss Louis, who wrinkles his nose a little at the taste of himself.

“Ew,” he grumbles.

“Nope.” Harry’s smile against his mouth must be huge, because Louis gets his slippery teeth when he goes for a kiss. “Lovely.”

A dark flush crawls all the way up Louis’ body, followed by a pleasant shiver. “Okay,” he says. “Time for cuddles. C’mon.” He slings a still-twitching thigh across Harry’s middle and pulls him down flush against his chest, biting a little at the hot back of his neck. Harry murmurs something unintelligible, and gives the hand Louis’ got pressed to his chest a strong squeeze before interlacing their fingers over the steady, strong thump of his heart. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Thank you all so much for your response to this story. 
> 
> Thanks always to Alex for the critical (Virgo) eye, feedback, and support. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: drug/alcohol use (moderate), graphic descriptions of eating disordered behavior, frank discussion of eating disorders/ED behaviors, illness including mentions of (involuntary) vomiting, and semi-explicit sex stuff/discomfort/discussion around sex. Please let me know if you need more detail/specificity regarding any of these, and apologies if I missed something. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is HUGELY appreciated. <3

It occurs to Louis the next morning, whilst frantically completing his Dramaturgy assignment, that he has next to no idea what’s going on with the rest of his friends. It’s a startling realization; he’s at the center, always has been, knows all the goings-on in his social circle and does his best to support (be that via listening to or just getting really, really drunk with) anyone he knows who’s in distress. He frowns and looks again at the text Liam’s sent him. _dani called it bk off._

On the one hand, he’s absolutely got to get this assignment done before class as Dr. Pryor “ _Absolutely does not accept late work under any circumstances,”_ but also, Liam’s definitely very upset even if he isn’t saying so. He does the maths; he’s got an hour and a half before class, and he needs at least half that to finish this. _Fuck,_ he thinks, _why didn’t I work on it last night?_

 _Cause you were busy shagging Harry,_ his brain supplies. Right. A little involuntary shiver runs through him at the memory, followed by a hot flash of guilt. Is he neglecting the rest of his life in favor of being with Harry, like he was so upset when Liam did last year with Danielle, bitter that he was never a priority? Fuck. He scrubs a hand over his face.

 _On my way xx_ he texts after a minute of deliberation, wrestling his laptop into his bag and making his way across campus as quickly as he can. He’s winded and weak by the time he makes it to Liam’s building, which makes him seize with anxiety that makes it even harder to breathe. Liam’s room is thankfully on the ground floor, though, and he’s stopped gasping by the time he knocks on it.

“Li?” he calls. “Can I come in?”

“It’s open.” Liam’s voice is pretty miserable and nasal, so he’s definitely at least _been_ crying. His face is all blotchy when Louis shoulders open the door and peeks around, too, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“Where are your tissues?” Louis asks.

“In there.” Liam points to the desk.

“Right. Let’s have you use some, then, yeah? Give your poor shirt a break.” He tosses the box onto the mattress and then hoists himself up. “C’mere.” He wraps his arms around Liam’s bulky shoulders and rubs at his hair—growing out a bit, but still fuzzy. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry.”

Liam cries into his shoulder for over an hour before Louis guiltily extricates himself to get to class. He’s tempted to just skip, but the attendance policy is strict as well, and he’s really fucked if he doesn’t show up, especially since he knows he usually gets the flu in the winter and needs to leave himself some wiggle room. Liam insists it’s fine, _he’s fine,_ Louis should go on, so he does.

Dr. Pryor lectures him in front of the entire class when he admits he doesn’t have his assignment. He tries desperately not to cry, but the heat behind his eyes just grows and grows and spills over and he’s so ashamed he wants to melt into the floor and he has another hour left in the workshop and the second he gets out he makes a beeline for the dining hall and he can’t stop himself from anything he’s doing, from buying a pack of custard creams and two slices of pizza and a pint of ice cream, barely caring if anyone sees him—caring a lot, really, just drowned out by other things—and jogging back to his room and inhaling the lot, ice cream last, as it eases the whole purge along. He’s almost a full hour in front of the toilet. His knees ache fiercely when he finally stands up to wash his face, which is awful—swollen and red with no jawline to speak of, puffy and bloodshot and _ugly._ Automatically, he sets about splashing cold water and washing out his mouth.

He’s maybe willing to admit—only to himself—that this might be something, but it wouldn’t be anything if he could get himself under control. Which he will. He needs to stop losing it like this. Exercise some restraint. Draw up a meal plan and stick to it. Keep out of the dining hall. Jog more. _Fuck._ He’s gotten vomit on the bottom of his t-shirt. Washing it under the tap doesn’t get rid of the stain. Harry would know what to do, but he can’t ask, can he? _Fuck._

*

His second real date with Harry, two weeks after the first one, is more standard young-couple fare; they go to the cinema. Harry wants to see _The Perks of Being A Wallflower,_ so that’s what they see, and they end up spending next to no time snogging in the back like a couple of teenagers, because it’s quite good, and if Louis were to marry a girl it’d be Emma Watson, and Harry hitches little breaths toward the end that make Louis turn to his side and study the shine of his eyes and cheeks for a moment before pulling him half into his lap, unsatisfied with touching shoulders and hand-holding anymore. He kisses the top of his head and runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, rough and stinging, and little numb in places from the sour gobstoppers he’d got at the pick-n-mix and kept one in his mouth at all times so he wouldn’t be tempted to say yes when Harry’d repeatedly offered his Maltesers, sticking his tongue out to show the blue until Harry giggled and turned back to the film.

As the credits begin to roll, Harry shifts and turns his head to kiss Louis, chocolatey and sweet and a little salty. “You taste sour,” he murmurs into Louis’ mouth, and darts his tongue in. They have to break apart to let a group of girls get past, and then Harry hooks his arms back around Louis’ neck and pulls them down, giggling. They stay until the cleaning crew comes in and seem a little displeased at Louis straddling Harry’s thighs and sucking on his neck, which is a bit embarrassing, but _teenage,_ he reminds Harry as they step, fingers tangled, into the bite of autumn wind, _and since you’re a teenager and_ I _can pass for thirteen it’s really quite appropriate, when you think about it._

*

“Y’alright?” Zayn gives him an appraising look but doesn’t linger, thankfully, and turns his attention back to the bowl he’s packing. As awkward as Zayn can be, he’s got nimble fingers ( _long, thin,_ good) and separates stems and seeds easy as anything. He gets good shit, too, worth putting up with the inevitable ramble about _“creative_ weed, like, mind-enhancing, y’know? ‘s too expensive, else I’d only smoke that.”

“Fine,” Louis says, shifting so he’s cross-legged on Zayn’s green shag rug and digging his fingers into it like it’s grass he could pull out handfuls of and shred blade by blade. “This term’s kicking my arse, I swear.”

“Mmmm,” Zayn commiserates. “I hear you, mate. Here.” He tosses Louis his Zippo and carefully hands him the bowl. “Guests first.”

Louis scoffs but accepts and puckers his lips on the cool glass, inhaling the strong scent before flicking the lighter and tilting it just down enough that he can inhale a good lungful before passing both items over to Zayn and holding his breath as long as he can. He coughs and splutters after about three seconds, lungs and throat burning, which is embarrassing.

“Y’okay?” Zayn asks, after he’s exhaled and failed again at smoke rings. Louis’ still coughing a little, eyes tearing up. “Sound like it’s your first time.”

“It’s your mum’s first time,” Louis coughs. “Give it here. Went down the wrong pipe.” His next drag is better, sucking the cherry all the way down and blinking through the urge to cough until the burn subsides and he starts to feel a little buzzy.

Zayn pokes at the ash with the end of the lighter. “I only ask ‘cos I haven’t seen you much.” His smoke rings are better the next attempt, but still not good. Louis doesn’t stop him from trying because his fish lips when he does are hilarious. “Things with Harry good, then?” He waggles his stupidly perfect eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Louis groans. He’s feeling lighter with every drag. It’s nice. “And yes, for your information, things are very good, how’re you?”

“Alright, yeah,” Zayn mumbles. He enunciates progressively less when he smokes; Louis can understand him fine, but it’s fun to watch their other friends nod and smile. “Same old, you know. ‘s not as fun when you don’t come out, but like, I’m happy for you, yeah? Pull easier without you hanging off me, anyway.” His grin is crooked. “’m just messin’ about.” He takes another little suck and furrows his brow, then dumps out the ash into the bin— _fire hazard!_ Louis’ brain screeches, but he’s not bothered, everything’s fine. Zayn starts packing another bowl.

They smoke three altogether before Zayn’s high enough to forget to pack another, and they end up on their backs on the rug, temples pressed together. Louis pets at the carpet. It’s so nice. So is Zayn’s hair when he pets it, especially ‘cos Zayn doesn’t even bitch at him or bat away his hand.

There’s music, which he hadn’t noticed for a couple of minutes. It was playing when he came in, he remembers. It’s familiar but it takes a long minute of scrunching his face and rubbing the carpet before it twigs. “Is this, um, fuck, what d’you call her.” He starts to hum, just a fragment.

“Carly Rae Jepsen?” Zayn supplies.

“Yes! Her!” Louis shouts, louder than he’d meant to. He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Sorry. I love this song.”

“Me too,” Zayn says dreamily. They both mouth along for a while. A rumble starts to make itself known in Louis’ gut after a bit. He frowns again. That’s not right.

“Bro,” Zayn says, giggling. “Did you just _growl?”_

“Rrrrrrrrrrrr,” Louis tries. It hurts his throat. Lots of things do, it’s bad.

“No, like, I think it was your stomach.” Zayn pats it. It takes a second for Louis to register that and flinch away. “Whoops. Sorry, mate. I’ve got snacks, lemme go get ‘em.”

Something about that makes anxiety buzz in Louis’ gut, but he’s too blissful to pay much attention to it and makes grabby hands for the items Zayn brings over from his bed. They stain their fingers orange with artificial cheese and watch _The Simpsons_ until the room goes dark and soft.

When Louis comes to, it’s too late to do much about it—all he gets out is orange spit and bile. He jogs for an hour, until his knees and lungs are shrieking at him, and then a few minutes more.

*

He bumps into Rory, for the first time since freshers week, whilst climbing up the stairs from the basement kitchen with a cup full of ice to calm the swelling in his cheeks and jaw. It takes him a moment to notice who he is, both because he’s scarcely seen this resident since the start of term and also because he’s just flung ice all over himself.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “watch where you’re going, will you?”

“Sorry.” The kid doesn’t sound sorry. He also smells faintly of weed, so if he’s one of Louis’ residents he’s going the right way for a surprise room inspection. It’s been a bit of a rough week and Harry hasn’t texted him back all day. “Didn’t see you there.”

Louis flicks his gaze up from where he’s attempting, rather stupidly, to brush the freezing water off his clothes. “Oh. Hi Rory.”

“Hi,” he says. “Can you remind me of your name again?”

Louis scowls. “Louis. I’m your RA, remember?”

“Oh!” Rory smiles. “You’re Harry’s…person, right? I feel like he’s mentioned you.”

“Yeah,” Louis says flatly. “Can I do something for you?”

“Just trying to keep out of the room, actually.” Rory wrinkles his nose. “Harry’s got like, the plague or some shit. Don’t need to catch that.”

Louis’ heart clenches. “Harry’s ill?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said. Anyway.” He jerks a thumb toward the lounge area opposite the kitchen. “Me and a few mates are gonna watch the Chelsea game. S’pose you could join if you like.” He doesn’t sound enthusiastic.

Neither is Louis, though. _What a smarmy little prick._ And a Chelsea supporter to boot. Louis is so going to bust him. After he takes care of Harry, and possibly gets him moved to a new room so he doesn’t get dragged into anything when Louis gets Bobby in to find Rory’s pot stash. Or after he gets rid of Harry’s pot stash, which Zayn supplied. Whatever. Harry’s ill, so he makes a grunting noise and takes the stairs two at a time, his legs a little unsteady.

They’ve still got the little note cards Louis’d had to make before the term started on their door. One says “Harry” in green block letters and features a (rather shoddy) drawing of Prince Harry on one end and Harry Potter on another. Louis had done his best. Rory’s is supposed to be the Doctor Who character, he thinks, although he probably wouldn’t have guessed had he not drawn the thing himself.

He snaps out of his semi-daze and knocks three times on the door. “Hazza?” He tests the handle. It’s unlocked, so he takes his chances.

The room is…strange. He’s really never been in here, just waited outside whilst Harry fetched things and only got a sliver of a view. It’s as if there’s a line down the middle, one side neat and fairly orderly, with the odd t-shirt hung over something and a few books on the desk, and the other is, well. Louis shouldn’t judge, considering that’s what his room would look like if Harry didn’t manage to clean up after him so often without Louis’ noticing. He never seems put-out about it, says he actually quite likes it with a cheerful smile on his face. _He doesn’t tidy Rory’s stuff, though,_ Louis notes with something like glee. Harry’s not just the kind of person who tidies up after everyone. He does it ‘cos Louis’ _special_.

Louis tiptoes over to the large duvet-covered lump on the right-hand bed and cautiously places a hand on the dark green fabric. “Baby?” he calls, soft as he can. No response. He repeats himself, a little louder, and gives the lump a gentle nudge.

A pathetic-sounding cough comes from under the blanket. “’m fine, d’n’ worry,” the lump croaks, followed by a coughing fit that lasts for close to a minute.

“Baby,” Louis croons. “Love, what’s wrong?”

“Throat hurts.” The top of Harry’s head becomes visible beneath the duvet. Louis tugs gently on a curl. “Stomach. Think I’ve got the flu. ” His pout is audible. _Ah._ So Harry is a mopey patient. That’s alright; so are half his sisters. Louis’ a great nurse, takes after his mum that way.

He hops up on the bed and scoots his bum back a bit, drawing long, soothing strokes over what he assumes is Harry’s back. “D’you have a thermometer, love?”

“Dunno.”

“Can I see your face? Want to know if you’ve got a fever.”

Harry’s curls don't bounce when he shakes his head, limp with grease. “’m alright. I’ll be fine in a day.”

“Baby,” Louis sing-songs. “Don’t be a grumpy goose. C’mon, else I’ll just climb on top of you.” Harry doesn’t respond, just shifts so his head’s completely covered again. True to his word, Louis clambers atop the Harry-shaped lump in the blanket and begins poking at it. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Haz. C’mon, get your gorgeous face out of there and let me baby you.”

There’s an audible sigh, and then the tips of Harry’s fingers appear at the edge of the duvet and pull it down just enough that glassy green eyes are able to glare at him; the effect is dulled by how unfocused and bloodshot they are. Louis’ hand immediately flies to press against Harry’s sweaty forehead. He’s warm, but not overly so. Slowly, he leans down and pecks little kisses across Harry’s hairline. He smells a little gross and tastes salty when he licks his lips. Louis’ heart twists in sympathy.

“Alright,” he says. “Have you taken any medicine?” A barely perceptible head shake; Harry seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Right. I’m going to fetch some paracetamol and Lemsip from my room, okay?” I’ll be right back. If you could have a go at sitting up for me I’d greatly appreciate it, Typhoid Mary. Try not to die whilst I’m gone.”

“You’re mean,” Harry rasps.

Louis kisses him on the hair again. “You’re welcome.”

*

After coaxing two paracetamol and a mug of Lemsip down Harry’s throat and getting him into a fresh t-shirt—he’d sweated through the fleece he’d been wearing—Louis feels okay letting Harry nod off against his shoulder, listening to his rhythmic, shallow wheezes and snores.

As the time ticks on and he mucks about on his phone, he begins to grow nervous at the amount of work he’s got to do tonight, throat dry and palms beginning to prick with moisture. He really can’t afford to get sick, either, which he might well do—at the very least he ought to get as much as he can done before he comes down with whatever Harry has. It’s probably an inevitability at this point, actually. His immune system doesn’t work for shit.

Carefully, he slides Harry’s head off his shoulder and onto a folded-up pillow, smiles a little at the way Harry’s brow furrows and his chapped lips smack together before he rolls further onto his side and begins snoring even louder. Louis makes his way out of the room quietly—the door slams somewhat even as he gently coaxes it shut, but that’s just the way of it in this building. Thankfully, Harry’s a heavy sleeper.

The pounding of his heart intensifies as he pads down the hall and into his room. He’s got so much to _do._ It’s all overwhelming—he reaches for his rucksack and then stops and rakes his hands through his hair. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He’s fucked up. He’s left so much to do.

Half-term’s coming up soon and he’s not made nearly as much progress on the Dramaturgy assignment that’s due next week, he’s barely settled on what time period he’s setting his version of _Hamlet_ in, he’s behind on journal entries for Comp Lit, he’s not gotten anywhere on the linguistics essay he doesn’t even really _understand_ but feels too embarrassed to ask about and he’s got about a million unanswered emails in his inbox and hasn’t returned his mum’s calls and hasn’t been to a tutoring session in weeks and oh god he’s going to _fail_ he’s going to _fail_ and everyone who said so is going to have been _right_ and he’s going to have to go home and leech off his mum and admit he’d fucked up and know that she’s always going to be disappointed even if she’ll never say it and he’s going to have to see people he went to school with constantly and Harry’ll break up with him and he’ll fall out of touch with all his friends here and he’s going to die alone and unloved and he fucking _hates himself,_ god, why is he such a fuck-up?

It doesn’t even give much relief to tear open the cupboard and tear through until he finds the mostly-full jar of peanut butter and begin choking it down. It welds his mouth shut and he swallows and swallows against the dread sitting heavy in his abdomen. For a half-second, the weight eases, and then it’s back again, but the cold well of despair is _so much_ that he can’t stop chasing those tiny moments of reprieve until he runs out of anything to do so with. He briefly considers going out to get more, but the weight begins expanding after a few panting breaths and panic sets in, sending trembles through his hands as he wipes one across his mouth.

The terror wells up, up, up, bubbling and hissing like it’s going to boil him from the inside out. It needs to come _out,_ feels like it’s about to make its way to his brain and heat it until it explodes, he can’t fucking _breathe,_ he’s going to pass out, black creeps around the edges and then he blinks and he’s gagging with one hand and gripping porcelain with the other, had been too desperate to wipe the seat down so there’s still bits of urine clinging to the cold white, he’s having to use four fingers and coughing so hard he shudders with each and barely anything is coming up so he keeps pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and crying and gagging and pushing and pushing and coughing and pushing and heaving and pushing and pushing and spluttering and crying and pushing and—

The door opens. He hadn’t locked it. _Please please please please don’t—_ There’s a gagging noise, maybe it’s him, only no, he’s breathing hard and both hands are on the toilet and one is dripping vomit onto the floor so the spluttering isn’t him and he’s confused until it lets up for a second and then shapes itself into a deep, croaky, “Lou?”

 _Fuck._ His brain scrambles for an explanation and lands on one that might work, _please god._ “Think you got me sick,” he rasps, trying for jovial. It would be too conspicuous to try to clean off his hand with loo roll at this point, so he doesn’t move.

Harry coughs again and there’s a soft splat. Louis can’t look at him yet but he must be vomiting into the sink because Louis’ occupying the toilet and _didn’t lock the door,_ Christ. He seems to catch his breath and says, shaking like he’s scared, “You were—you were making yourself, though.”

His heart’s going mad and he feels freezing. “Wanted to, um, hurry it along, y’know, how you feel better once you throw up the once, yeah?”

One last cough and then it’s soft, tentative footsteps and soft fingers on his shoulder and a tiny little, “Lou, look at me.”

He shakes his head.

“Please.” He sounds even smaller, and then coughs. _Fuck._ Harry’s sick and Louis’ fucked up and made him upset about this which he shouldn’t have found out about because it’s fucking _disgusting_ and no one knows the details and now Harry’s _seen it._ He may as well see everything. Louis doesn’t resist much when Harry grips his filthy chin and turns his face up. He doesn’t open his eyes, though. The touch disappears after a moment but before he can investigate it’s back and there’s a cool, wet paper towel swiping with incredible care over his face and another over his right hand and then the sound of the toilet flushing. Soft fingertips run over his cheeks and brush away moisture he hadn’t noticed and then slide up to his fringe to smooth it back. What makes Louis’ eyes snap open in shock, though, is the soft, warm kiss that’s pressed to his forehead.

Harry looks like shit: pink and flushed and hopelessly ill, but he also looks very much like he’s been crying and could start again at any moment, helplessly confused.  There’s something desperate in the way his gaze keeps flicking around and his throat bobs continually and then tenses when he tries to hold back a cough.

“Sorry,” Louis rasps. It feels like the only thing to say. “That you had to see that, I mean.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth over and over, each time seeming to grow more frustrated with himself and raking his hands through his hair, chewing on his lip and making it bleed. His pink tongue darts out to soothe the cut. “I…” He goes quiet again for a moment. “Sorry. I don’t know the right thing to say and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.” The slow pace of his voice sounds pained combined with how cracked and rough it is, going silent every few syllables. He hacks for close to a minute and then clears his throat and looks up at Louis, intense and piercing.

“Um.” Louis tugs his shirt down where it’s begun to ride up around his hips. “D’you mind if we have this conversation, uh, not here?”

“Oh! Right. Not on the floor. Good idea.”

Louis nods and winces. His throat burns fiercely—he would’ve stopped not long after Harry had come in, had Harry not come in, had Louis not been stupid. The blinding panic has given way to resigned dread and a tremor throughout his body. He follows silently behind Harry down the hall, toward Harry’s room. “Don’t want to get my germs in yours,” Harry explains softly.

Automatically, they sit on either end of the mattress, looking at each other. It feels cold and odd. Louis wraps his arms around his knees and hides the bottom half of his face, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

There’s a long silence, something that hasn’t really ever been uncomfortable for them—again, Louis’ reminded how short a time they’ve actually known each other and how he’s already managed to screw up and show Harry his ugliest parts. It takes a lot of effort not to cry and he’s pissed at himself for all of it. He can’t have a normal relationship with a lovely boy without bringing all his fucked-up baggage into it.

A cough from the other end of the bed breaks the silence. Harry squares his shoulders a bit. “Um. Should I, uh…I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea how to approach this, but maybe would it be easier if I told you what I think is, like, going on, first?”

Louis nods. He’s not sure he could talk without bursting into frustrated tears.

“Ok. So. I am a bit freaked out, but not by _you,_ like, how I feel about you is…it’s the same. I just want to, um, understand, I suppose? ‘cos I want to, like, support you, if I can. If you’ll let me.” He coughs again, rattling and awful. “Obviously I’m a bit of an invalid at the moment, but.”

“Obviously,” Louis murmurs into his knees.

Harry gives him a smile. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” He laughs weakly.

“So.”

“So?”

“So you, er. You make yourself throw up?”

Louis shrugs. “Sometimes.” His voice sounds cold to his own ears. “’s whatever.”

Harry frowns. “You do that a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Say something’s whatever or doesn’t matter when it does.”

“It _is_ whatever. It’s honestly not a big deal, I’m fine.”

“But you’re making yourself throw up on purpose.” Harry’s voice breaks a little on the last word, and he pauses before speaking again. “That’s bulimia, isn’t it?”

Louis stiffens. “I’m not bulimic,” he snaps.

“But I—”

“I’m not saying I didn’t make myself throw up. Just that…” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’ve just been stressed. I, er, had some, um, problems. When I was younger. Um, I’m…you’ve never asked why I’m older than everyone else in my year. I told you that, right?”

Harry blinks. “Didn’t much think about it, actually. I guess I thought you took a gap year, or something.”

“Or something.” Louis snorts, trying not to prickle at the way Harry says _gap year_ like Louis would’ve been able to go gallivanting around Europe. “Um, actually, I had to, um. I had to repeat year 11? And all my GCSE’s, and that, ‘cos I was in hospital for a lot of it, ‘cos of, um, not eating, and stuff. Uh. Anorexia nervosa, type II, if you want to be technical about it.” It all comes out in a rush, no inflection.

Harry nods, prompting him to go on. Right. Cards on the table.

“So, um. I dunno. It is what it is, innit? I’m not, like—sorry, ‘m just not good at talking about it, and ‘m freaking out a bit, so could you…” He takes a deep breath. “If you don’t mind, could you tell me what you think?”

Harry furrows his brow. “How do you mean?”

“Like, if you think I’m gross or weird or, like, really a girl or something.”

Harry’s face goes properly stormy. “ _What?_ Why would I think that?”

Louis shrugs. “’s like. Most people think of it as, like, a girl thing. Um. Food…problems, and that. And like. I was a girl, or like, thought I was, um, when it started.”

“Oh. Um. D’you—d’you think of it like that?”

Louis shrugs. “Dunno. I’ve got a lot of issues with my body and it’s not, like, easy to separate them, y’know? Everything kind of gets tangled together.”

“Your body is lovely,” Harry says, terribly earnest.

“Don’t,” Louis snaps. “Sorry. Just like—I need to not think about it when we’re have this conversation.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. You couldn’t have known, could you?”

“I want to, though. I want to know.”

“’s tricky, that. I dunno myself half the time. It changes and it’s stupid, anyway. I’m just mental.” He shrugs.

Harry looks at him for a long moment, still staring after Louis averts his eyes. “It’s not. And I don’t think you’re mental. Um, I mean, I don’t get like, exactly where you’re coming from, but. Depression, like, runs in my family? So my mum has it, and her mum, and um, me. Sorry, I don’t mean to make this about myself, just …I know what it’s like to feel weird ‘cos you have problems.”

“Oh.” That’s…new. Louis feels like they’ve inched closer on the sheets. Maybe they have. It helps calm his heartbeat a bit, soothe the fine tremors that zip down his arms. “That’s shit, I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugs. “It is what it is.” Louis can see the shadow of a dimple in his cheek.

“D’you…are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m alright. Figured out the right med balance a while back. Still get a bit weird sometimes, but not too often.”

“That’s…I mean, that’s not good, but like, I’m, er, glad you’ve got it like…managed.” Louis blushes at how stilted and weird he’s sounding.

“Me too.” Harry gives him a small smile. “So. Only reason I said that was to—well, I suppose to reciprocate a bit because, like, I don’t want things to feel like an interrogation, y’know? I’m not the Inquisition. And I wanted you to know that I can maybe understand pieces, and will…try, if you want to help me understand more. So that I can help you, I mean.” He meanders through the sentences, musical and low, as usual.

Louis frowns. “You’re so calm.”

“Am I not supposed to be?” Harry raises an eyebrow. “I dunno what your definition of calm is, either. This is intense.”

“Just…you’re not, like, yelling or sobbing, or um, anything like that.”

“’s that what other people have done?”

Louis winces. “Um. Family, yeah.”

“That’s a bit shit.” Harry frowns. “’s part of why I don’t really talk about my stuff, though, ‘cos people don’t know how to react, like, I told a few of my mates in college and they made it this whole big thing that it didn’t need to be, so.”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, tell me about it. Um, it’s fine. Sorry. I like, don’t know what to do. I’m not—I don’t know what to say.” Harry’s being so _good_ and he’s _been_ so good and Louis is disconcerted by how calmly he keeps taking these things that Louis frets horribly over. It’s like whiplash. Harry’s just sitting there listening and making himself vulnerable and not saying anything awful and not leaving.

“D’you want me to talk instead?” he asks, deep and kind. Soft. Harry’s so lovely. Louis’ original Disney princess judgment was right; Harry’s presence is starting to soothe him, calm his racing pulse and shivering limbs. Louis nods. “Ok. Thank you for being honest with me, about this and about other things. I’m…trying to figure out how to put into words what I want to say, sorry.”

Louis waves a hand. “Take your time.” He tries for a little smile and relaxes his arms and legs a bit.

“See, you’re not different, to me, now. I just know more? And, like, I feel like you think these things about you, stuff you’ve gone through and stuff that’s a bit different about you…like, it feels a bit like you think that’s all there is to you sometimes?” Louis nods, a little ashamed at how easily Harry’s seeing to the core of him. “But I don’t think so. So, I don’t want you to be worried that um, this stuff is going to make me see you as, like, a problem, or, like, one-dimensional. ‘cos I think you’re incredible. In loads of ways.”

“I think you’re incredible too.” The smile creeping over his face takes him by surprise.

Harry grins wide and then frowns. “I don’t want to get you sick but I want to cuddle.” He pouts, exaggerated and adorable.

“Ugh, you’re ill,” Louis groans. “I’m the worst, I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.” He tentatively scoots up the bed and opens his arms for Harry to burrow into. “Don’t mind. Would’ve gotten the flu at some point anyway. Awful immune system, me.” He snorts. “Side effect of the self-starvation, and all.”

Harry tenses minutely, and then relaxes. His little, slightly strained breaths are warm on Louis’ neck and his arm is solid, weighty, even as he shivers every now and then. Louis feels…grounded. Safe. Naturally, his mind begins to drift to how many calories he must’ve absorbed from earlier. Too many. Just as he begins to panic, Harry mumbles, “Stop that,” against his skin. “I can hear you thinking.”

Louis giggles. “Can not.”

“Can so,” Harry grumbles.

“Can not!”

“Can _so!_ ” they snap simultaneously.

Louis lets out a whoop. “Jinx! Padlock 1-2-3, only I can set you free!” He tries to blow a raspberry on Harry’s forehead and Harry giggles but doesn’t talk. Good. Harry respects the rules of jinx, apparently. “Hmmm, what do I want…” He pretends to ponder for a moment, basking in how normal and lovely this feels, Harry in his arms and sharing Louis’ juvenile humor. “I’d say you had to kiss me but I think we’re both quite gross at the moment. Maybe you just shouldn’t talk for a while.” Harry whines. “Alright, alright. Put a film on?”

Harry sighs and rolls his eyes, but obligingly gets off the bed and fetches his laptop. After a few clicks, he switches to full screen and props it at the end of the bed. The opening credits to _Grease_ roll across the screen and Louis lets out an involuntary squeal of delight as Harry snuggles back into him.

“We take care of each other,” Harry says.

“Huh?”

“You said you were s’posed to take care of me,” Harry mumbles as _Summer Nights_ starts. “Doesn’t work like that. Relationships, I mean. We take care of each other.”

Louis’ heart might burst out of his chest. “Yeah,” he chokes. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He can feel Harry grin against his chest, against the rapid, giddy thump of his pulse. The way Harry’s cracked, wheezy voice warbles _summer lovin’, had me a blast_ before it gives out entirely bleeds the last of the tension out of Louis’ body, and he laughs hard through the twinge in his throat.

*

Louis wakes up the next morning unable to breathe through his nose or go two minutes without coughing like his lungs are trying to remove themselves from his body.

Zayn comes over and puts a QUARANTINE – DO NOT ENTER! sign on Harry’s door three days into their twin flus. Louis would jump on his back and yank on his hair if every part of his body didn’t hurt, which, unfortunately, it does. Liam drives the both of them to the clinic so they can get sick notes for classes the next week. Rory stays with his girlfriend and agrees that Louis can stay in their room for the duration, on the condition that Harry disinfect the room once he’s “uh…not dying.” Harry suggests pushing the two beds together so as to be more comfortable, but they break into fits of coughing giggles after a few minutes of struggling to move the heavy frame, and then the giggles turn into kisses, and the kisses turn into making out, and they have to take breaks constantly because neither of them can breathe through their noses but they keep at it anyway.

It’s the best fucking week ever.

Louis feels like shit warmed over the whole time, but it’s still brilliant. Harry encourages him to catch up on his coursework and he gets it done, bit by bit, whilst getting lecture notes from Eleanor with a _PS I miss yooooou ☹_ at the end and they make plans to go shopping sometime soon. Harry lets Louis fuss over him and doesn’t press him about food; neither of them can keep down much more than toast and tea, which Harry insists on making because _I know how to make tea, Louis._ It’s not half bad, actually, and Harry _preens_ when he tells him as much, so he makes a point to tell him each and every time. The third time, he takes a picture of their mugs and posts it to Instagram with the caption _tea time with my boy <3 _and Harry flushes all the way down to his toes, so Louis has to take a picture of their entwined hands and post that as well. Eleanor comments _awwwwww you two are precious!!,_ along with a few of Louis’ nice, normal friends. Zayn just writes _VOM!!!!_ but apparently feels bad after a couple of minutes and adds _nice pic aha xx._ Liam says _happy 4 u_ and Louis doesn’t mock him on the moody black and white selfie he posts a few minutes later. Only partially because Harry says not to, with a vaguely amused and reproachful look.

It’s good. It’s really fucking good. By the fifth day they’re both able to breathe and bored enough that they decide to occupy themselves getting each other off several times a day, unable to get enough of wanting and being wanted in return. Maybe that’s Louis’ thing, but Harry seems to need the reassurance that Louis wants to touch him, for god knows what reason since Harry is unfairly perfect and only gets more so when he blurts out after extensive prodding that he would _maybe like to be tied up sometime, possibly, er, y’know, hypothetically, at some future point._ They decide to save it for when they’re both done with random unpredictable bouts of vomiting. (Deepthroating is also shelved, via mutual non-verbal agreement, after a close call).

Louis’ mum calls on Friday, and Harry hands him lozenge after lozenge whilst working on his sociology essay and pretending not to listen to Louis’ half of the conversation.

“Is someone there with you?” Jay asks, after Louis bursts out laughing at Harry’s attempts to hang a spoon off his nose.

“Just Harry,” he wheezes. “He got me sick. We’re quarantined together.”

“Oh!” His mum’s voice brightens massively. “Hi, Harry! Can I say hello? Or, hang on, let’s not muck about with phones and waste minutes. Could you ring me on Skype?”

Harry nods excitedly and the spoon clatters to the floor.

“Were you properly eavesdropping, then? I’m appalled. Sorry, mum, turns out Harry has super hearing powers. Might’ve known with those big ears.”

“Hey,” Harry whines.

Louis yanks on one of his earlobes and giggles at the squawk Harry lets out. “Kidding, love. Sorry again, he’s a nuisance. I’d love to Skype if you don’t mind that I look like a zombie.”

A giggle sounds through the phone. “Alright, love. See you soon.”

Louis hangs up and turns to Harry. “Are you okay to meet her? I mean, it’s just over Skype, but still. I know you nodded but I wanted to double check.” He’s buzzing a little, bouncing his leg and trying to bite down his grin.

“Are you joking?” Harry’s dimples are out in full force. “C’mon, get on.” He gestures at the screen. “I want to meet your mum.”

“Patience, darling,” Louis says. The incoming call sound startles him. “Time to meet the family. Gird your loins.”

*

“I love your family,” Harry says later, tracing shapes on the back of Louis’ hand as Louis works on costume sketches. He’s been murmuring praise every few minutes, which makes Louis squirm happily. “They’re like…” He purses his lips as he searches for the word. Louis looks up from the page to study the cut of his profile. “Super-charged. Turbo family.”

Louis snorts. “ _Turbo family?_ Sounds like you’re calling 'em robots, love. That's quite offensive.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “are they…wait, hang on. You’re telling me that robot families aren't normal? I thought everyone had them.”

“That explains you, then,” Louis says. “A highly advanced android.”

“Did you know they have sex robots in Japan?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, life size robots you can, um, have sex with. I read about it on Twitter.”

“Harold. You do know that not everything you read online is true, don’t you?”

Harry gasps. “Are you implying that people _lie_ on the _internet?”_

“Unfortunately,” Louis sighs. “The world’s a dangerous place, Hazza.”

“No, but like, I’m pretty sure the sex robots are real.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “D’you have a story about this? Should I make some popcorn.”

“Um, no,” Harry says. “Just, like. Saying.”

“You know you’re really obvious, right? When you want to fuck, I mean. Try for some subtlety, really, Harold.”

“I’m offended,” Harry deadpans, “that you would think my motivations were _anything_ but pure interest in the advancement of technology—“ He cuts off with a sharp gasp when Louis grinds the heel of his hand into his groin, sudden and hard.

“Hello there,” Louis croons. “Were you trying to tell me _you_ were a sex robot? Since we were discussing you being an android, and all. Can you even feel anything?” He squeezes Harry’s dick harshly. Harry swears loudly and then claps his hands over his mouth, eyes bugging out a bit. “Alright. Highly advanced sex robot then.”

Harry whines and squirms, trying to get Louis to move his hand, give him some friction. Louis crawls so he’s seated on top of his legs, pinning him. The covers slip underneath them and one corner of the sheet pops off the mattress. Harry fixes it, freakishly long orangutan arms that he has.

It comes undone again when Louis’ got Harry’s cock in his mouth and he doesn’t bother, just arches up and makes the sheets squeak against the mattress, chanting _fuck fuck fuck_ and moaning when Louis digs his nails into his thighs and pulls down, leaving bright red scratches in their wake. Just as Harry’s thighs start to shake in his telltale way, Louis pulls off and crawls up Harry’s body to kiss him hard, swallow the whine Harry releases into his mouth, the little “ _no,_ I was so close.” He pinches one of Harry’s main nipples harshly. Harry just pushes into it. _God._ He’s amazing. Louis wants to do everything for him, make him feel good any way he can. His jaw is really starting to ache, though.

He’s got another idea.

“D’you have condoms in here?” he asks in between bites along Harry’s collarbone. He can feel the slight headshake and the way his own lips form a pout. _Dammit._

“Rory— _ah!_ Rory does, though,” Harry gasps at another twist to his nipple. “In his um. Under the mattress, I think.” He fishes for something under his own mattress and manages to look sheepish and breathlessly turned on at the same time. He waves the little tube. “I’ve got lube.”

“Prepared.”

Harry grins. “Always.” His face goes suddenly thoughtful, and he narrows his eyes a little. “What are…d’you, um? What are we doing?”

Louis can’t help but laugh. “Your dirty talk could use some work, Haz.”

“My dirty talk is _fine,”_ Harry says.

“Alright, sweetie.” Louis pats his cheek. “Provided I can find your twat of a roommate’s condoms, um.” He scratches the hot back of his neck. “Wouldyoumaybewannafuckme?” he rushes.

Harry blinks, seemingly dazed. “God. Fuck. Um. Yeah. That’d be ace.”

It makes Louis giggle again. “Alright. I’m going to go look, you just sit tight, there.” It barely takes him 30 seconds of fishing about under the mattress to find a squished cardboard box containing two foil squares. “Aha. Jackpot.” He waggles the box at Harry and then chucks the condoms at him. Naturally, he doesn’t catch either, but it’s fun to watch him try.

“Are you sure?” That little line between Harry’s eyebrows has made an appearance. Louis doesn’t like it.

“Haz,” Louis snaps, bristling. He doesn’t appreciate not being taken at his word. “I’m sure. C’mon.” He gives a little slap to Harry’s outer thigh. “Up, up. Less clothes. How d’you want me?”

Harry blinks again, unmoving. “Um. I dunno. Whatever you want, really.”

Okay. Louis would rather be less in control of this—he’s not used to directing in this situation, not particularly used to this situation anyway, but he can work with it. He slaps Harry’s thigh again and Harry springs into action, shucking off his pants and t-shirt and sitting back on his haunches with his cock bobbing between his legs. Louis’ throat goes a little dry.

After a moment of deliberation, he gets on his back, propped up on his elbows. He shakes his head when Harry goes to toy with the hem of his t-shirt—bless him, he just nods and knee-walks over to kiss him, deep and slow. Ah. Harry wants romantic. Louis ought to’ve figured. He’ll tease him for it later, but for now it makes his heart swell and his breathing pick up.

Harry peeling off his pants and going down on him is starting to get familiar, but it’s still toe-curling amazing and makes Louis twitch and groan uncontrollably. The long finger that slips in is familiar, too; the second less so, stinging a bit, but he breathes through it and relaxes, letting his legs fall further open against their apparent desire to crush Harry’s head between them like a watermelon. That’s a gruesome thought he should not be having with his boyfriend between his legs, but it keeps looping over and over. _Shut up,_ Louis tells his brain, _calm the fuck down, would you?_

Harry’s brow scrunches and he glances up at Louis. He’s no idea how long it’s been, but he figures from the way Harry’s working twice as hard that he normally would’ve come by now. He runs fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair in apology and then tugs him up and off, urging their mouths together. Harry’s hot for it, as always, enthusiastic and sloppy.

“C’mon,” Louis breathes into his mouth. “Get in, would you?” Harry scrambles for one of the foil squares and struggles to tear it with slick fingers, eventually giving up and using his (weirdly adorable, rabbit-like) front teeth and rolling it on. He just sort of stares at Louis, so intently he squirms under the gaze. “C’mere, you big knob, quit staring.”

It seems to snap Harry out of whatever brooding had been leaking onto his face, and he grins and tugs a little at his cock. He’s so smug about it. Louis should stop calling him a big knob except that it’s actually stupidly hot when he gets all self-satisfied about it. Not that Louis will admit it. Yet. He nods, and Harry moves between his legs, pushing them back a little. It’s a bit of a strain, but not too bad.

Harry pushes his hips forward, muscles straining visibly under his skin, biting his lip white, nostrils flaring. Louis’ own arms are trembling, too, tight and strained by the way he's squeezing Harry’s triceps, willing himself to relax and let Harry in, give him this. Pressure takes a sharp turn toward pain and he sucks a breath in through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut against the heat in them. He feels Harry relent a bit and then press forward harder, pushing hot tracks down Louis’ temples. He whips his hands up to cover them, hopes it comes off as overwhelmed instead of pained.

Harry pulls away again, though, and doesn’t try to move back in. Gently, so gently, he winds his fingers around Louis’ forearms. He doesn’t try to pull his hands away from his face; he lets Louis hide it from him, and Louis’ a little too overwhelmed to process the implications of that right now but he knows it means something.

“Hey,” Harry says, soft as the pads of his fingers and his hair and the fleece blanket Louis’ been stealing all week. Louis screws his eyes shut harder against the new wave of tears threatening to leak, and then opens them to look at Harry’s beautiful, blurry face; he tries for a sheepish smile. Harry carefully moves a piece of fringe out of his eyes and tucks it behind his ear. His cheeks are flushed and hectic and he’s breathing hard, a contrast to the small, fond smile on his lips and the slight concerned crease of his brow. “It’s alright,” he says, low and gravelly. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs. “Out of practice.”

“’s alright, babe. Really. I mean it.”

“It’s stupid, though. Hang on, give me a minute here to relax.” He twists one hand out of Harry’s gentle hold and reaches around, slipping inside himself and trying not to wince at the slight burn. Right. He should’ve tried to take that slower.

“Hey,” Harry says, laying two fingers against the back of Louis’ hand. “Babe. Let’s not, okay?”

Louis frowns. “I can _do it,_ ” he grumbles, knocking Harry’s hand away and twisting his fingers harder. “’m not _fragile,”_ he spits. He’s fucking _not,_ fuck what any of his fucking school psychologists said. Fuck Harry for agreeing.

“I didn’t say you were.” Harry climbs off and settles to his side, reaching one hand out to cup Louis’ cheek and stroke a thumb over the bone. “That’s not what I said.” He’s gone partly soft in the latex and isn’t making a move toward rectifying it. Louis feels his stomach drop.

“Sorry I ruined the mood,” he grouches.

“That’s not—“ There’s a sharp bite of frustration in Harry’s tone, and he rakes his hair away from his temples before letting out a long, slow breath through his nose. “I’m not turned off by you. I don’t think you’re fragile. I’m just not into doing something that’s clearly causing you pain. I don’t want to be that person. You can’t make me be that person.” A tremor that hadn’t been there before works its way into the last few syllables. Louis feels suddenly, wretchedly guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sitting up to snatch his pants out of the sheets and pull them up his legs. “That was shit of me, I just like…reacted. You keep being perfect and it’s weird.”

“I’m not perfect,” Harry says. “That’s like…that’s mad.”

“You _are,_ though,” Louis insists. “You’re just like, nice about everything. Stop it.”

Harry grins. “Oh. Should I be meaner, then?”

“Yes,” Louis says firmly. “You should be at least 25 percent meaner to me.”

“Nope.” Harry scrunches his nose like he’s going to sneeze. “Don’t think I will, actually.”

“Oi.” Louis pokes him in the ribs. “Twat.”

“Knob.” Harry sticks his tongue out. Louis licks it. Harry shoves his hands into Louis’ armpits and wiggles his fingers, and it devolves from there.

“Uncle!” Louis shouts, breathless, after a minute. “Stop, stop.” Harry does. “You’re a child, you know that?”

“You started it!”

“Ex _cuse_ me.”

They both stare at each other for a long, loaded moment, limbs tangled from their vicious tickle fight.

“Hey there,” Harry says, low and plain and warm.

“Hey yourself.” Louis smiles, and then ducks in to lick Harry’s nose. His knee shifts simultaneously, and _oh._ “Hello again to you too.”

Harry blushes beet red. “Hey,” he whines, “’s just, like, friction.”

“You randy bastard,” Louis teases. “You fancy a go, then?”

Harry ponders for a moment, and then shifts his hips back and curls his upper body around Louis’, nuzzling his hair. “’m alright. Later?”

“Sure, love.” Louis strokes the fine hair around Harry’s temples.

“Um,” Harry starts, “I was, er, thinking…”

“Always dangerous,” Louis quips.

“Shut up. Anyway, I, uh. If you’d be up for it, um, I quite like, er…” He squirms. “I like, um, the other way around. I think.”

Louis arches his eyebrows. “Are you meaning to tell me you’re a bottom? Thought you didn’t have experience with lads.”

Harry groans. Louis can almost feel his blush. “I _don’t,_ just, like, y’know, tried it on myself and stuff.”

He nudges Harry in the side. “Hey. No need to be embarrassed. I’m up for it if you are.”

“I am. Sorry.” The one eye Louis can see is sparkling, smiling.

“Now. Let’s talk _in depth_ about your masturbatory habits, Styles. I want detailed accounts of every wank.”

Harry hits him with one of the decorative miniature pillows he keeps on his bed. Louis wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t retaliate. He _is_ himself, though, around Harry more than anyone else.

*

Rory looks wary when he enters the room. “You two cleaned?” he asks. Louis gestures to the bin full of paper towels and the empty bottle of bleach next to it.

“Yep,” Harry says brightly. “Hands and knees for two days straight.” Smug fucker just smiles at Louis’ panicked sputtering.

*

Half-term sneaks up on him; before he’s really aware of it he’s turning in all his assessments he’d gotten ahead on during his sick week with Harry, and when he shows up to the party Zayn’s having and sees an open suitcase on the floor, he startles.

“What’s that for?”

Zayn stares at him and flicks the ash off his cigarette out the window. “Half-term?” he says, one eyebrow quirked as he takes a long drag. He manages one fully-formed smoke ring and does his crinkly smile. “’s next week, Lou. ‘s why I’m having the party.” He says it like it’s obvious. Maybe it should be—Louis realizes he hadn’t twigged it was half-term _because_ he’d been able to work on all his projects during that week with Harry, and thus he’s not experiencing any of the paralyzing, full-body terror that normally accompanies this point in the semester.

“Huh,” he says. “Hadn’t realized.”

“Have you gone daft?” Zayn asks, snorting. “Fucked your brains out?” Louis shoves him, and the cigarette slips through his fingers when he startles. “Bro! What the fuck!”

Louis sniffs. “Should’ve anticipated it, bro.”

Zayn scowls silently and pulls his pack out of his jacket.

“Can I bum one?” Louis asks, sugary-sweet. He flutters his lashes. It always works on Harry.

Unfortunately, Zayn seems immune, maybe by virtue of his own otherworldly eyelashes. He scowls deeper. “No. Buy your own.”

“But Zaaaa-aaaaaayn—“

“Fine,” he grouses, and holds the pack out to Louis, who grins and takes one.

“Gimme a light, would you?” He only barely ducks it when Zayn chucks the (heavy!) lighter straight at his head. “Oi!”

“Deserved it,” Zayn mumbles around the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“Did _not._ ” Louis tosses the lighter back at Zayn and takes a drag, hanging one arm out the window. “So remind me again why you’re having a party? I know you miss me, darling, but all you have to do is say so.”

“Ugh, shut _up_. My life is much quieter without you, actually. It’s nice. I’m considering making it permanent.”

“You’d miss me,” Louis says sagely, and tries to blow a smoke ring. It’s harder than he’d thought.

“I would,” Zayn admits. “God knows why.”

“Who all else is coming?”

Zayn scrunches his face and counts on his fingers. “You, Eleanor, Liam, Danielle—actually, maybe not, I dunno what’s happening there—Jamie, Nicola, Harry…”

“You invited Harry?”

“No,” Zayn says. “I just assumed you were bringing him.”

Louis waves the arm not dangling out the window around the room. “D’you see Harry, then?”

“No, otherwise the two of you would be snogging and I’d have to hide under the bed.”

“We do not _snog—_ “

“Liar. He’s going to come over and you two are going to snog in the corner the whole time and it’ll be disgusting.”

“Remind me again why you’re having this party? Does it even count as a party.”

“You’re an RA.”

“Yes I am.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Room inspections.”

“Ahhhhhh. Okay. Does that mean—“

Zayn gestures under the bed. “Everything must go.”

Louis grins. Tonight’s going to be _brilliant._

*

Louis’ got a good buzz going by the time Eleanor and Harry arrive—he’d vaguely known they were friends, but he’s _delighted_ to see them talking and laughing. Harry fits. Louis doesn’t really have to try to carve out space for him in his life; he’s just slotted right into the middle almost without Louis realizing. Like he’s known him forever. Like he’s in his heart, for good.

Louis makes a note to tell him later.

“Haz!” he shouts. “El! So nice to see your pretty faces!”

Eleanor kisses him on the cheek and sweeps away to greet everyone else and get a drink. Harry kisses him on the mouth, short and sweet and pulling away with a smile when Louis tries to make it dirty. “I’m a classy lady,” Harry murmurs against his mouth. “You have to buy me a drink first.” His hair is clean and a little damp, good-smelling. The t-shirt he’s got on is soft. Louis tells him so, whilst he’s dragging him over to Zayn to get him a vodka coke. And then another. And another.

“So,” Zayn drawls. “Are youse two planning on just ignoring the rest of us all night, then?” Louis blinks and stares at him. It hasn’t been _that_ long. Sure, Harry’s in his lap and he’s not sure the last time he talked to another person is. Whatever. He feels loose and he’s got his favorite boy all wrapped around him and giggly and kissy.

Eleanor giggles. “Or were you playing seven minutes in heaven? Or rather, forty minutes. And not in the closet.”

“Closets don’t suit me,” Louis sniffs. His arse is numb when he becomes aware of it, shifting a little and sloshing his drink. Oh. He’d forgotten he had that. “Seven minutes in heaven, though. Good idea, that. Liam and Zayn, get in there.”

The shade of scarlet Liam flushes is _delightful._ “Fuck off, Tommo.” Louis blows a kiss and waggles his eyebrows. It all feels good and right and familiar, the smells and the sensations, the warm body and the trust and all of it.

“No, no, wait,” Zayn says. He’s still sucking on the very end of a joint like he might get something out of it. “Seven minutes in heaven isn’t any fun, they’ll just shag in my closet. I don’t have any bleach.” Louis gives him the finger.

“Spin the bottle, then,” Eleanor suggests.

“Oh! Or truth or dare.” Louis doesn’t really know Nicola, but he likes her already.

“Yes!” he shouts, and then whispers, “Sorry, love,” in Harry’s ear. He’s not got good volume control when he’s drunk.

Harry’s looking up at him through his lashes, eyes shiny and huge and wide mouth turned up in a sort of manic grin. “’s been good in the past,” he says. Too right.

*

Truth or dare sucks. Truth or dare is the worst game in the entire world. Louis’ going to run for Prime Minister and his first action in office is going to be a unilateral ban on the playing of truth or dare. (His second action is going to be re-enacting Hugh Grant’s dancing scene from _Love Actually,_ not that it’s relevant.) Thatcher’s got nothing on him. He’s going to rule with an iron fist. All of Britain shall tremble before him.

He’s well aware that he’s glaring with all his might and that everyone else in the room can see it. He sips his drink. Sullenly, mind, and not taking his eyes off Zayn’s nose brushing the denim of Harry’s jeans and his teeth prying pieces of candy off the _fucking thong_ that Harry’s got on. Louis has never regretted a gag gift more. Zayn doesn’t get any more presents. Neither does—who had initiated this dare? Oh right—Nicola. Well. He doesn’t know her really, so no great loss. Liam’s on dangerous ground with the way he’s giggling into his hand.

“You quite finished?” _Thank you,_ whoever said that. He looks around the room. They’re all looking at him—Zayn’s paused with the elastic of the thong held between his teeth and his eyebrows raised. It takes him a second. _Oh. I said that!_

The elastic snaps back against Harry’s waistband. “Y’alright, mate?” Zayn asks.

“Peachy,” Louis grumbles. “How’s you?”

“’s just a game,” Zayn placates. “Don’t get all growly.”

“I’m not growly.” He’s not an irrational jealous weirdo. He doesn’t want to be. There’s just—there’s something. Oh, his face is hot. Shit. He’s a teary drunk under the right circumstances. That’s no good.

Soft fingers tilt his chin up. Harry’s studying him, as if he’s going to ask if Louis’ okay. Which he’d just said—he’s peachy, was Harry not listening to him? He’s halfway into being cross about it when Harry says, “Truth or dare?”

“Huh?” Eloquent. Got a way with words, he has.

Harry’s right dimple is popping. Louis wants to lick tequila out of it. Are face-shots a thing? They should be. It’s a crime that Louis has not sucked liquor out of Harry’s dimples.

“You can another time,” Harry says, soothing his fingers over the back of Louis’ neck. “I said truth or dare. ‘s my turn.”

Oh. That makes sense. “Dare,” Louis says.

With no real finesse but a kind of awkward grace nonetheless, Harry drops to his knees onto the scuffed linoleum and his other hand lands on Louis’ shoulder, which tingles at the contact. Whole body tingles, really. Harry does that to him. Harry’s lovely. His lips are really lovely, shape words so carefully, pink and lush. They stop moving. Louis doesn’t like it, so he pouts. They start moving again, though, and his ears perk up. Oh. “Dare you to kiss me,” that’s what Harry was saying. With his gorgeous mouth. Which is unfairly distracting, really, Louis can’t be blamed for getting sidetracked. He tells Harry as much, and then kisses him.

It’s wet and buzzy, mouths slackened with alcohol and clumsy, like their first kiss except so much better, not wrought with tension and unsurety, _Harry likes him, Harry’s his boyfriend,_ he doesn’t have to worry about being a creep mooning after a straight boy, _Harry’s his boyfriend,_ he gets to kiss him whenever he wants, how great is that? He loves that. He loves that so much. He loves that Harry’s his boyfriend and he gets to kiss him. He loves Harry. Everything is so pleasant that the thought just lilts through his brain, beautiful like everything else, and then melts away into the fine, misty feeling of the kiss.

Which is broken rather abruptly by something hitting Louis in the back of the head, startling him enough that he falls hard, backwards, on his bum. A chorus of giggles sounds behind him, and next to Harry’s leg, he sees an empty Irn Bru bottle. Fucking _Zayn._

“Get a room, would you?”

Speak of the devil.  Most of the consonants have slipped out of his speech, same as they have in Louis’ grumbled response, something about Zayn being a wanker and a plague on his houses or something. It makes Harry giggle, whatever it is. That’s nice.

“What did they say?” Liam ask-shouts over what Louis is _very_ sure is one of Zayn’s own GarageBand tracks. Someone replies. Louis’ not paying attention, he’s looking at Harry’s lips again.

“Think we will,” he calls, and then springs up, nearly overbalancing for a second before he’s able to right himself. “I meant to do that.” He holds out a hand to Harry, still on the floor and grinning. “Up you get. We’re gonna go get a room.”

“Be safe!” Eleanor calls after them as they stumble hand-in-hand to the door.

“Use protection!” Zayn shouts.

“Don’t make any babies tonight,” Danielle adds.

Louis frowns, and flicks her off, unsure of how else to respond. He doesn't want to make it a thing, especially not when he's drunk. Drunk-Louis is entirely too prone to frustrated crying in the middle of rows.

Liam’s saying something in her ear, anyway, and he's just starting to get upset about the exchange when Harry nuzzles into Louis’ neck, pouting. “ _I’m_ your baby.”

Oh. That’s true, and it's great. Louis loves that. “That’s true, you’re my baby.” He’s vaguely aware of gagging sounds coming from the rest of the room. He flicks them off too. “C’mon, baby,” he says into Harry’s ear. “Let’s go to our room. I mean, my room.”

Harry’s eyes are bright and shiny and look flecked with gold in lamplight. “Our room.”

 _Our room,_ Louis thinks. _Our room, our room, our room._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story, and I hope you enjoyed it. <3 Also, once again, my endless thanks to Alex, beta to the stars and literal angel. 
> 
> No real warnings for this chapter. Oblique mentions of eating disorder biz and one scene of a panic attack. Mostly just fluff.

“Shit. Fuck. Bugger. Shit-eating-arse-headed-hole.”

Louis looks despairingly at what appears to be his entire wardrobe spread on his floor. He’s not quite sure how it got like this, it just  _ happened,  _ and it feels like every time he picks something up three new bits of rubbish and clothing sprout in its place. Like some kind of filth-Hydra. Louis’ ultimate foe. The duffle he’s meant to be packing lies empty on his bed. 

“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, and then another. He backs up to rest the tops of his thighs against the edge of the desk and dislodges a stack of papers that scatter themselves onto the floor. “ _ Shit, _ ” he groans again, thumping his head against the top of the built-in bookcase. “Right,” he tells himself. “Right. Think of a plan of attack.” His head remains stubbornly blank. “ _ Shit. _ ”

A series of soft knocks at the door startle him out of his attempts to strategize. “ _ What? _ ” he grouses. If he gets  _ one more  _ fresher asking  _ when he’s going to inspect their room  _ he’s going to blow up.

“Um. Hi?” 

“Shit! Sorry Hazza. Be right there.” He steps carefully over the obstacles between him and the door, probably looking a bit mental. It’s a good job Harry can’t see him. Finally, he’s able to unlock the door and crack it open. “Hi baby.” 

Harry gives a bright little wave. “Hi! Um. I was just, like - I finished packing so I thought I’d come over and see how you were doing.”

“I’m alright!” Louis says. “Good, good, yeah. Not so good with the packing, me.”

“D’you want help?” Harry’s ducking down and leaning to the side to peer at him through the gap. He’s smiling, just a little tentative. “I’m quite good with it, myself.”

“I couldn’t ask you for that, Haz.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” His tone is terrifically earnest.

“You’re always picking up after me, though,” Louis whines, shifting a little restlessly. 

“I don’t mind. And you don’t ask.”

“It’s a war zone in here,” Louis warns. Harry gives him a little salute. “You’re  _ so  _ weird.” Harry just grins. “Alright, c’mon in.”

Harry doesn’t gasp or look disapprovingly at Louis or tut at the state of his room, just picks his way carefully across the floor to hop up on the bed and survey the wreckage. “It’s not too bad,” he offers. Louis snorts. “No, really. No problem. Here, you just sit where I am and tell me what you want to bring.”

“Okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re really fantastic, you know?”

Harry grins, bright and stunning. “You too.” He kneels and picks up a pair of jeans. “Pack?”

“Mhm.”

A jumper. “Pack?”

“Mm-mm.”

Bit by bit, the catastrophe on Louis’ floor begins to recede, until the bare linoleum is visible throughout and Harry’s on the bed with him, rolling t-shirts and trousers and placing them in neat lines in the bag. “Where are all your shoes?” he asks after a bit, frowning.

“Under the bed,” Louis says. “Ta, love.”

Harry disappears momentarily. When he springs back up, cheeks a little flushed and curls mussed from tilting his head to crawl, he’s not holding a pair of shoes; he’s holding the Tatty Teddy Louis’d won for him at the arcade. “Look who I found!” He hugs the bear to his chest. “I thought I’d lost him,” he says mournfully. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve got you another.”

“Felt stupid,” Harry murmurs.

“Hey.” Louis nudges a hand under Harry’s chin. “Not stupid. Really fucking cute, actually.”

Harry preens, flushing pink and smiling. “I was quite put-out that I wouldn’t have him over break, actually,” he admits.

Louis’ heart clenches; break hasn’t seemed real to him until the last few hours, most of which have been occupied panicking over the state of his room. The prospect of being away from Harry for a week is really unappealing. “Well, now you have him. You given him a name yet?”

Harry flushes deeper. “Not telling,” he grumbles, rubbing one of the teddy’s ears.

“ _ Hazza, _ ” Louis whines, “what happened to honesty and openness?”

“We’ve discussed it.”

“That we have.”

“Louis.”

“Yes?”

“No. That’s his name. Louis.”

“Oh my god,  _ Harry. _ ”

“Shut up, don’t make fun.”

“You named it Louis! That’s so cute I may die.”

“I’d miss you.”

“You too, love. You know…” He pauses. “My mum calls me Lou-bear.”

Harry brightens. “Really? That’s so cute!”

“Mhm.”

“What else,” Harry urges, crawling closer to Louis. “I need to know. It’s very important.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Swear not to use it against me?”

“Never.” Harry draws an X over his heart. “Please, Lou.”

“Boo-bear.”

Harry lets out a vaguely inhuman noise and then darts forward to kiss both of Louis’ blushing cheeks. “Boo-bear, boo-bear,” he sing-songs. “That’s what I’m calling him from now on. And you.”

“Hazza,” Louis groans. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

Harry pouts. “Yes.”

Louis rolls his eyes and fakes a sigh. “Only in private.”

“Deal.” Harry grins brightly, offering his pinky for Louis to lock his with. They kiss their thumbs and press them together, which quickly devolves into a thumb war, which devolves into a tickle war, which continues until Harry, gasping, shouts, “Uncle!” and Louis relents, sitting back on his haunches with one leg over each side of Harry’s torso. He leans down to kiss him once, warm.

Harry blinks up at him, big-eyed and with something that might be adoration. Louis flushes at the thought, has the vague sensation that something  _ important  _ had happened last night, but he can’t remember what it was. 

“Going to miss you,” Louis murmurs, brushing another kiss against Harry’s nose. He watches the bob of Harry’s throat as he pulls back.

“I’ll miss you too.” Harry’s voice is low and melancholy, and Louis has the impulse (not for the first time) to give him whatever will make him smile. He racks his brains, and then stiffens and straightens up when it clicks.

“You could come visit,” he blurts. “Or I could come see you. If you’d be alright with that.” It’s ridiculous--it’s only a week--but it feels right to ask, like Harry won’t scoff and call him clingy for wanting to see him. 

He doesn’t; it seems as though Harry fills with something like liquid sunshine, mouth dropping open and eyes opening impossibly wider before they squeeze almost shut and crinkle at the corners. Absentmindedly, Louis traces the pad of his thumb over the little bag under Harry’s right eye. He’s so beautiful. “I’d love that,” Harry breathes, pressing his cheek into Louis’ hand. “That would be fantastic.”

Louis has to kiss him. “Okay,” he says into Harry’s mouth. “We’ll figure it out. How’re you getting home?”

Harry shrugs. “I hadn’t really thought much about it. Was going to try and get a lift off someone, but that didn’t really work out. ‘m just going to go down to the train station and get a ticket.”

“Oh.” Briefly, Louis feels something twist inside him at the reminder that Harry has cash to drop on last-minute train tickets; he forgets, sometimes, that things like this are just matter-of-fact, a non-issue for him the way they’ve never been for Louis. He shakes his head minutely. Harry’s face has fallen the tiniest bit at Louis’ silence. “Brilliant, then. You could just get the train to Donny with me, instead. I mean, if it’s alright with your mum and all.”

Harry’s grin widens. “I’ll ring her right now. I’m sure it’ll be alright.”

“You do that.” Louis pats at his hip and then clambers off him. “I’ll ring mine. She’ll make you sleep on the sofa, though. Just warning you.”

“I’ll sneak into yours after everyone’s asleep.”

“Cheeky.”

“ _ There are worse things I could do, _ ” Harry warbles, practically skipping out of Louis’ room, leaving him stunned for a few moments, frozen on the bed. Sometimes Harry seems like a figment of his imagination. Other times Louis just counts Harry central among his blessings.

*

“Hi Boo,” his mum answers, sounding a little out of breath. “Everything alright? You all ready for the trip home? Did you get food for the train?”

“Train’s not for another four hours, mum. And yeah, I’ll get something, thank you. I was actually calling to ask something.”

“You sure you’re okay? You sound nervous, love.”

Louis worries the blanket between his fingers, suddenly actually, acutely nervous. “’m fine, promise. Er…would it be okay if Harry came with me? Just for a few days. He’s not got a ticket home yet so he could just come along with me.”

Jay’s silent for a bit. “Are his mum and dad alright with it?” she asks after a minute.

“Think so. He texted me a smiley a few minutes ago, which means yes. I can drive him back to Cheshire and pay for petrol and all that,” he babbles, eager to convince.

“That’s fine, then; we’ll find somewhere for him to sleep. The more the merrier.”

“Can he not stay in mine?”

Jay sighs. “Lottie’ll have a fit.”

“Huh?”

“She’s not allowed to have boys sleep over.”

“Mum, that’s different.” He doesn’t say  _ besides, I’m a boy _ even though it’s tempting, to poke that sore spot.

“I know, but you’ll recall you and I had the same row a million times when you were younger.” He does.

“You’ll have to have that row anyway, if I know Lottie,” he points out.

His mum pauses for a long moment. “That’s true.”

“She’s a right menace, that one.”

“That’s your sister.”

“Exactly. Besides, you said the rule was until I was in uni.”

“That’s also true. We’ll talk about it when you’re here, okay? Make  _ sure  _ Harry’s parents are okay with it first.”

“Will do.”

“Okay. I can’t wait to see you, Boo.”

“You too. I’ll see you soon, okay? Bye-bye.”

“Bye, baby.”

Louis may or may not punch the air and let out a tiny whoop when he hangs up. What’s that his old theatre teacher used to say— _ if no one’s around to see an actor, do they really exist?  _

_ we’re on (:  _ he texts Harry, taking deep breaths to calm the giddiness fluttering in his chest.

*

Liam drives the both of them to the train station—he’s going to Blackpool with his family, else he might be driving home with Louis, as they had last year—and Louis hugs him hard when he sets his duffle down on the pavement. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around more,” he says into Liam’s neck, scrubbing his palm over Liam’s fuzzy scalp.

“That’s alright,” Liam says back, in his matter-of-fact way, and squeezes tighter. “I’m really happy for you. I’ll see you when we’re back, yeah? We’ll hang out properly.”

“Have fun. Don’t get mugged. Dangerous sorts in Blackpool, you know.”

“Shut up, Lou,” Liam whines, ducking and blushing.

Louis smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Love you too, darling. Thanks for the lift.”

Harry gathers Liam into a hug, too, stooping just a bit. Louis is close by but can’t quite hear what they’re saying. When they pull away, Liam’s facial expression makes him suspect something akin to an older brother speech has just taken place.  Louis’ almost offended, but it’s sweet, the gentle, honest way Liam looks out for him.

A warm shiver runs through him as Harry reaches to clasp their hands together, swinging them a bit back and forth. He hauls his duffle onto his back, careful not to disturb their grasp. “Shall we, then?”

Their hands stay linked as they set off towards the ticket counter, and at the counter itself—Louis, predictably, winces at the fare Harry pays for his last-minute ticket, but his discomfort wanes at the fond smile the middle-aged woman behind the window gives the two of them, eyebrows slightly raised as she observes how close they’re sticking to one another. A quick pang of insecurity flashes through him at the thought that she might only approve based on a particular perception of their genders, but a gentle squeeze from Harry brings him out of it, and although he  _ cares,  _ it feels nice to feel Harry’s presence, to flick his gaze up and see the slight furrow of Harry’s brow, the way he mouths, “you okay?” and to nod and smile in response.

They’re only just able to get seats together on the train; Harry taps a businessman’s shoulder, making him look up from his newspaper, to ask, “Excuse me, sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind moving—“ he gestures to the empty seat facing him, “—if it’s alright with you? My boyfriend and I would like to sit with each other.” The man blinks and raises his eyebrows, but ends up nodding wordlessly and barely looking up from his newspaper as he shifts seats. “Thank you so much,” Harry says, grinning. The man nods, slightly, and brings his paper up higher.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Louis admonishes as they settle, squirming a little with delight. 

“I know,” Harry says. “I just wanted to,” and kisses Louis on the cheek.

“Oh,” Louis says, flushing with pleasure. “You’re a right sap, you know that?”

“Yep,” Harry sings. 

*   
An hour outside of Doncaster, Harry begins to fidget, opening and closing his book—Bukowski, which Louis’ been taking the piss out of him for since he took it out—and shifting in his seat, rocking his thighs back and forth across the tops of his hands.

“You alright, there?” Louis asks, casually, still mostly looking at the Sudoku he’s been doing on and off. He’s filled in two sets of 9’s in the same box twice, the page a mess of ink scribbles—why hadn’t he used a pencil?—belying the slight anxiety that’s creeping up on him as they approach Louis’ home. This is the first boyfriend he’s ever brought home. He’s a bit nervous, is all.

Harry seems more than a bit, though, as he just nods his head mutely and opens his book again for a grand total of five seconds before shutting it once more and pursing his lips, seemingly chewing on something he wants to say. Louis watches the way his chest rises and falls more rapidly underneath his jumper and the tendons in his wrists shift beneath the fine skin, and he thinks for a bit before reaching out to touch Harry’s fleece-covered shoulder.

“Y’alright?” he repeats. He leans forward a little so as to see Harry’s face, but he’s just met with the back of his head, Harry turning away in pace with him. “Babe,” he cajoles, “are you nervous about meeting my mum? I promise I was exaggerating about the fangs, Hazza, she’ll love you. She loved you on the phone, didn’t she?” He slides his palm between the slightly scratchy seat and Harry’s warm back, between his shoulders—a bit of a tight fit—and can feel the rapidity, the shallowness of his breaths. A curl of worry snakes through his abdomen; he wants to see Harry’s face, and he leans his upper body around until the side of his face is pressed to the windowpane, and, carefully balancing on his left hip, he brings his free hand up to brush Harry’s fringe out of his eyes.

They’re glazed, and a little frantic. His mouth is hanging open a centimeter or so. The train is too noisy for Louis to hear the shallow puffs of his breath, but he can feel them with the hand on Harry’s back, can see the tightness in his neck and shoulders, the flush of his face. “Shit,” he says, “Haz, do you have your inhaler?” He remembers Harry mentioning having asthma when he was younger. Stupidly, he digs one hand into his own backpack, searching through the jumble of books and sweets and pairs of socks, grasping for something that isn’t there, whatever will fix an obviously distressed Harry.

“Haz,” I need you to breathe, okay?” Leaning in to listen to Harry’s breathing has alerted him to how shallow and desperate it is, wheezing and gasping. “Deep breaths, c’mon, love, there you go.” He looks around, frantically, but everyone in the compartment seems to be studiously not looking at them. Right. He’s on his own, then. Harry’s breathing isn’t slowing down, actually seems to be speeding up. Louis doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Harry, I need you to breathe, okay? Are you having an asthma attack? Harry, please.” He hears the tone of his own voice going frantic, which he registers is a bad thing—something tells him he should be speaking in soothing tones, but all that appears to be in his vocal arsenal is rapidly-higher hysterical whispering. “Harry,” he repeats. “Look at me, baby, c’mon.” Harry can hear him, then, because he looks at him, wild-eyed. His mouth is moving, soft lips shaping something he can’t hear. “I can’t hear you, love,” he says. “Can you try and say that a little louder for me?”

Harry nods. “Panic,” he pants, and then closes his eyes for a few beats, gulping air in with sounds that make it seem like it’s hurting him, “panic attack,” he manages, finally. “Can’t—breathe—“

“How do I help? C’mon, Haz.” He cups a flaming cheek with his hand and runs the other helplessly through his hair. At some point he’d shifted so he’s kneeling before Harry. Maybe other people are watching them now. “Breathe, baby, you can do it. You need to breathe, ok?”

“I— _ am—breathing— _ “ Harry gasps. “That’s—the— _ problem— _ not—breathing—out—“

Louis is confused, and way out of his depth. All he can think to say is to take deep breaths but Harry seems to be saying not to. “Okay,” he says, “alright, look at me, love, okay? Keep your eyes on me. You’re going to be alright.” He looks around—he thinks he catches a couple of passengers averting their eyes right as he tries to catch theirs. “Is anyone a doctor?” he tries to shout, but it comes out mostly a quiet rasp. Shit.  _ He’s  _ panicking, now, his limbs all tingling and his mouth dry like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.

“Your mum,” Harry wheezes. Louis blinks. Was that a joke? What’s— _ oh! _

“Right, brilliant, Haz, one second,” he babbles. Phone. Where’s his phone? He digs through his bag, thinking absently he looks a bit like a wild animal—it’s not there. Fuck. It’s not there. Where is it? Did he leave it in Liam’s car? No, he’d texted Zayn a furtive picture of where the businessman’s hairpiece had been falling off when he’d lowered his newspaper.  _ Fuck.  _ Fuck fuck fuck. He scrubs his palms up his thighs, the burn of the denim singeing. His hip hurts. There’s something sharp—shit, wait, no, that’s his phone. Right. His mum.

“Boo?” she answers, tinny and clearly worried. “Are you alright? I was just about to leave for the station.”

He takes a deep breath—he can, he’s just been forgetting to—and grasps both of Harry’s shaking hands in his, balancing his phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Hi mum,” he says, and squeezes. “We’re on the train. Haz is having a panic attack, we think.”

“Does he have medication?” He appreciates the way his mum’s tone goes immediately businesslike, is reminded that she’s not only his mum but a person on whom a lot of others rely, someone they trust. She’ll know what to do.

He repeats the question to Harry, who shakes his head. “Haven’t needed it,” he whispers. “First—one—in—a—while.” A tear streaks from the corner of his eye down to the sharp curve of his jaw and drips off, landing on Louis’ hand. There’s snot tracking down into his mouth, too. Louis makes to wipe it away, but Harry’s gripping his hands too tightly, bruising. 

“No,” he tells his mum. “He says he hasn’t needed it. What do I do? He’s not breathing.”

“Breathe with him,” she says. “Long, slow breaths, ok? Count to ten, and make sure he exhales all the way.”

“Okay.” He gets back in his seat, contorting so he doesn’t have to let go of Harry’s hands. “Hazza, I’m going to count, and you’re going to breathe with me, ok?” He does—six times, shaky exhalations up and back from ten, and Harry won’t stop shaking, his breath still coming in short pants and his heartbeat frantic when Louis checks it under his jaw. “It’s not working,” he says into the phone, conscious of how his voice is cracking. He’s got no idea how much time has passed and his eyes feel hot.

“Right,” his mum says, “Your train’s ten minutes away by my count. How long’s this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. It feels like it’s been hours.

“It should last half an hour maximum,” his mum says, softer than before, trying to comfort rather than instruct him. “It’s frightening, but it’ll pass, okay, love? Just do your best, and I’ll get you both from the station. I’m keeping my mobile on speaker, okay?”

He swallows. “Okay.” He loops an arm around Harry’s shoulder and pulls his trembling, lanky body towards himself. He thinks the severity of the shakes is starting to abate, just a bit. He keeps counting, under his breath, out of habit,  _ one two three four five six – is he breathing slower? – nine eight seven six five –  _ “C’mon, nice and slow, there we are, baby,” _ – six seven eight nine ten nine eight seven six five four three two one. _

By the time the train pulls into the station and he’s able to glimpse his mother, rocking up on her toes to scan the windows, Harry’s calmed enough that Louis’ able to guide him up out of his seat and out of the compartment, hoisting his bag on the way and ducking his head, a little abashed. The air that rushes up from below the train to greet them is foul-smelling and hot, but once they pass through it, Louis’ first breath in smells like home, and his first exhale is accompanied by his mum flinging her arms around him, smelling strongly of jasmine, and saying something in his ear he doesn’t quite catch. By the time he blinks, she’s gone, and he turns around to the sight of her, one hand on her hip, peering up at Harry and clearly checking him over, turning his head this way and that whilst he blinks at her, a little owlish, his breaths exaggerated and deliberate, and, when he finally smiles, sheepish and worn-out, Louis creeps around to see his mum beaming and getting up on the tips of her toes to kiss Harry on the cheek and whisper something in his ear.

Harry dozes most of the car ride home—Louis would like to sit in the back with him, but the car seat strapped in makes it impossible, and anyway, he’s never liked making his mum feel like a chauffeur. She catches him up, almost brutal in her efficiency, on the goings-on of the rest of her children, voice tinged with pride when she talks about Fizzy’s piano recital, which she had recorded and Louis knows he’ll be made to watch promptly upon arriving home and eating something, and then softer, more evasive when he asks about Mark and how that’s going. “It is what it is,” she sighs, flicking on her blinker for the left turn down their street. “He’d like to see you.” Louis doesn’t say anything, which he thinks she probably expects, as she lets the subject drop.

“Hey, Haz,” he coaxes, once the car is in the drive and his mum has gone around to open the boot, “wake up, sleepyhead.” Harry’s blurry and confused but lets himself be herded into the house—thankfully, none of the girls are home yet to shriek and regale him with questions and pull him every which way to participate in activities involving various levels of sadism—and up to Louis’ room, which is more or less just as he’d left it, out of his shoes and into bed, where he murmurs something unintelligible into the pillow (maybe a  _ sorry,  _ maybe several) and begins snoring.

“Poor love,” Jay sighs when Louis informs her of Harry’s state. She’s chopping onions, and she passes the board to him wordlessly, crossing over to the noisy fridge, which throws off an absurd amount of heat for its purpose and against which Louis would often lean when he was younger and couldn’t get warm, there being no extra money what with all of Louis’ new needs for increased heating bills. She takes out a litre of milk and pours a glass, which ends up next to Louis, like he knew it would. “Drink up,” she says casually, “you’re looking a bit peaky. You did a good job taking care of him, I swear.”

Louis eyes the milk. “I felt a bit helpless,” he admits, and focuses on making all the pieces of onion even, even as his eyes sting and he really can’t do what he’s setting out to, anyway. 

His mum is quiet. “I know how that feels,” she says, lightly. He takes a sip and waits for some of the anxiety to seep out of the room, eyes closed against the burn of the onions. It clears, after a bit. “Anyway, be sure to let him know he’s got nothing to be ashamed of—can I have those? Ta—and I’m making spag bol for dinner. Wait, he’s not vegetarian, is he?”

“Nah.” Harry usually goes for the veg options in the cafeteria, but Louis’ seen him eat meat, and he’s decently sure Harry had been behind the mysteriously vanishing burger Zayn had been moaning about earlier in the term, deprived of his hangover breakfast and sulky. “Are you going somewhere?” He watches her guide onions into the slow cooker and fiddle with the knobs. 

“Got to round up the brood,” she says, giving a slight nod of approval as he swallows the last of his milk. “We’ve got a few minutes, though. Would you put the kettle on?”

*

Harry pads carefully down the stairs an hour later, as Louis’ fiddling about on his phone and soaking in the feeling of being in this familiar kitchen, with its hum of appliances and uneven heat. 

He and his mum had had a nice talk—short, but nice. She’d asked about his eating again, and he’d evaded the question. She hadn’t asked directly if he’d been throwing up, but he knows it was implicit, that she didn’t want to have to ask directly any more than he wanted her to, and they dropped it; it was a familiar standoff. 

She’d had to go after not too long to get the girls from their various schools, and whilst he’d volunteered to do so—he missed driving, and his sisters—she’d insisted he instead stay to make sure Harry was all set and to keep an eye on the slow cooker, although what he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for he didn’t know.  He’d decided that if it explodes, he’ll call.

He’s alerted to Harry’s presence by the creak of the floorboards and he grins when he sees him, sleepy and rumpled but calm. “Hey, Bambi,” he calls, and gathers the cups with small clinking noises to carry them over to the sink; he ought to wash them, but he doesn’t. “D’you want a cuppa? I can put the kettle back on.”

“No thanks,” Harry says, voice rough. He shuffles closer to Louis, pigeon-toed and nervous-looking. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he offers. “That was really embarrassing.”

Louis shrugs. “It was fine. I’m sorry I didn’t know what to do.”

Harry furrows his brow. “How were you supposed to?”

“Dunno. Just should.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.  _ I’m  _ sorry. Tea?”

“ _ You  _ don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Do you want a cup of tea or not?” Louis snaps, and they both stare at each other for a long moment before bursting into giggles. 

“Seems we’ve already gotten to the old married couple bickering stage,” Louis says when he’s got his breath back. “Moving right quick, we are. Next week it’s kids and houses and the lot. We’ll be boring.”

Harry grins. “Properly boring. Fight over who gets to choose the TV programme.” He’s close enough for Louis to smell, warm and spicy.

“Mmm, and how exactly the country’s going to the dogs.”

“Yep,” Harry says, sidling up to Louis and resting a hand on his back whilst Louis fumbles with the kettle. “And we’ll have really quiet sex, every night at nine, with the lights off.”

“Every night?” Louis squawks, and swats Harry’s hand away from the cupboard. “Anniversaries and holidays, if you’re lucky.”

Harry pouts. “Birthdays?”

“My birthday  _ is  _ a holiday.”

“Is it customary to have sex on Christmas eve?”

“It’s a celebration of  _ life,  _ Harold.”

“I thought that was Easter.”

“Right, okay, Easter as well. Anyway, the point is that you need to lower your expectations, Curly. What kind of tea d’you want?”

“What kind do you have?”

“Yorkshire.”

“And?”

“Yorkshire.”

“So why did you ask me what type I’d like?”

“A test.”

“A test of what?”

“To see if you’d say something unforgivable, like Twinings. I’d have had to finish with you, which would be quite awkward, don’t you think?”

Harry giggles and presses his face into Louis’ neck, pressing his long body all up his back, but not like he’s trying to smother Louis, or overpower him, or anything else. It’s just his presence, his warmth as they wait and watch the kettle make little bubbles in the still water, the bubbles multiplying until finally the whole surface becomes a rolling boil, jumping and sputtering until the light clicks off and Louis turns and kisses Harry once, soft, and it turns into twice, three times, until they hear the telltale sound of keys in the door and young voices shouting over one another, and Louis pulls back, raising his eyebrows. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” Harry says, beaming.

*

Predictably, Louis’ sisters all  _ love  _ Harry. He’s sweet and engaged and over-emotive with the twins, stomping about when they rope him into a game of hide-and-seek and making a show of not being able to find them, even though the lumps under the bedspread in Louis’ room are rather squirmy and giggly. He answers Lottie and Fizzy’s barrage of questions during dinner and asks his own, inquiring about Jay’s work and complimenting her profusely on the dinner; he even insists on doing the washing-up, although Jay’s pointed look at Louis clearly indicates that he’d best go help him. Harry washes and Louis dries, and as he wipes plate after plate, listening to Harry humming something under his breath, he drifts a little, thinking  _ I could get used to this  _ and letting a hazy, blurry thought of a small kitchen that’s  _ theirs  _ float around his head, staring at Harry’s forearms immersed in soapy water so intently he nearly drops several glasses and probably does a shoddy job drying them.

“Lou?” He snaps his head up toward Harry, who’s paused, rubbing at his nose with the part of his forearm not covered in yellow rubber—Louis’ apparently got the kind of boyfriend who insists on wearing rubber gloves to do the washing up, and he can’t quite explain his delight at this discovery.

“Sorry, spaced out,” he says, and sets down the fork he’s been absentmindedly rubbing for he doesn’t know how long. “What’d you say, love?”

Harry blushes a little and turns back to the sink. “I asked if you think your mum likes me.”

Louis blinks. “Are you having a laugh? She loves you, Haz.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, leaving behind a swipe of soap bubbles. “I dunno, just wanted to check. I was a bit nervous.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Louis snorts, and doesn’t miss Harry’s slight wince. “Sorry. That came out wrong, you’re alright. I just meant there’s no need, really. She likes you.”

“Really?”

“Really. You volunteered to do the washing up. I had to be practically dragged by the ear to do a single chore when I was a kid. Still have to, for the most part. Pretty sure she’d like to swap, actually.”

“Hey,” Harry says, voice gone soft and tender, “don’t say that. You’re amazing.”

The flush that creeps into Louis’ cheeks is entirely because the Aga continually throws off heat no matter if it hasn’t been on in a week. “If you say so,” he mumbles. “Bit of a pain in the arse to have for a kid, though.”

“Did she say that?”

Louis shrugs. “Not in as many words, no. I mean—I dunno. Not sure I want to talk about it just yet, yeah? Especially with the likelihood that my  _ nosey sisters are listening in, _ ” he half-shouts as he finishes the sentence. “I know you’re there, Lotts.”

“I was just coming in to get a drink,” she says primly, emerging from behind the door frame. “Mum wants to see you, Lou. Harry, can I get you anything?”

“Oh my god,” Louis groans. “This cannot be happening. My teenage sister is not flirting with my boyfriend.”

“I’m just being a gracious host!” Lottie protests, but flushes a deep pink and scurries across to the fridge.

Harry looks bemused and a little afraid. “What do I do?” he whisper-shouts.

Louis snickers. “Nothing, love, I’m just poking fun. Haz, will you be alright with this lot?”

“ _ God,  _ Louis,” Lottie groans, “you’re being so embarrassing. Harry, do you watch X Factor?”

“Yeah!” Harry says brightly. “I was actually going to audition when I was younger but my mum didn’t fancy the idea of me not finishing my A-Levels.”

Lottie squawks. “So was Lou! Liam actually did, have you seen the video? Wait, you know Liam, right? He’s our neighbour, or I suppose was our neighbour, where we used to live.”

“Yeah, I did. He’s properly good.”

“Right, it’s so unfair he didn’t get through. Anyway, d’you want to come watch it with me and Fizz?” She gives him something Louis knows is supposed to be a meaningful look, mostly consisting of pursed lips and slightly raised eyebrows. 

It flies right over Harry’s head, it seems. No matter. He’s got time to learn, if Louis has his way. “I’d love to.” Harry beams, and looks back at Louis. “That alright?”

“By all means.” Louis gestures toward the sitting room. “Have fun.”

“Mum’s in her room,” Lottie calls over her shoulder as she tugs Harry by the arm through the door. “Can you ask her if I can go to Emily’s birthday party while you’re up?”

“Ask her yourself!” Louis shouts, although he knows what the reply will be, and Lottie’s indignant “I already  _ did,  _ that’s why I’m  _ asking _ ,” makes him smile, even as his heart pounds a bit, replaying his and his mum’s earlier conversation in his head, Harry’s reaction to the completely true statement that he’d been a pain to raise. 

Jay’s sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard with a book open when Louis slips through the door. She smiles, a little tired, and sets it down. “Hi, Boo.” She pats the neatly-made bedspread next to her. “Come have a sit. I’ve missed you.”

Louis obeys, and swallows around the tense lump in his throat. “Is anything wrong?”

She frowns. “No. Not unless you wanted to tell me there was something wrong, in which case I’d be all ears.” He doesn’t miss the slightly chiding tone to her voice, nor the worry, and winces. 

“No, I’m good,” he says. “How’s the book?”

“Alright,” she says. “The author’s a friend of Lauren’s—you remember Lauren, right? Your minder from when you were younger. You look nervous, baby.”

Louis deliberately unclenches his hands from the sheets. “Harry’s rubbing off on me.”

Jay smiles softly. “He’s a nice boy. I like him.”

“Me too,” Louis mumbles.

“Really, Lou. I’m glad he makes you happy—he makes you happy, right?”

“Yeah.” He really does—or, maybe, happiness always feels more within reach, brighter and more intense when it’s present, around Harry. He feels  _ more.  _ “He’s really great.”

“Good. I worry about you, you know.”

“I know, mum.”

“I’m just glad you’ve found someone who accepts you, is all I’m saying.”

Louis shifts and, once again, deliberately relaxes the fist he’s made. “Thanks,” he says shortly.

Jay sighs. “I always say things wrong. I’m sorry. Tell me about this term, then, I feel like we’ve not talked in ages.”

He does, and relaxes in increments as he recounts his classes and professors and what he’s meant to be working on over break, hearing the excitement in his own voice describing the  _ Hamlet  _ adaptation he’s working on. The dryness of his throat eventually alerts him to how long they’ve been talking, and he glances at the clock—it’s close to ten. Jay mimicks him, and groans.

“Alright, I’m going to try and get the girls to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“Lottie asked me to ask you about Emily’s birthday party, by the way.”

“Of course she did.” Jay rolls her eyes. “I told her I’d think about it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Boys.”

“Ah.”

“What parent of a thirteen year old lets their daughter have a co-ed sleepover? It’s mad.” 

“Thirteen is a weird time.”

“I  _ was  _ a teenager once, love, I remember, and it’s not been  _ that  _ long since you. I know. I told her I’d think about it.”

“I’ll tell her. She and Fizz have Harry captive watching X Factor, by the way.”

“Bless him.”

“Where am I meant to have him sleep, by the way?”

Jay purses her lips. “Are you alright with the pull-out in the sitting room?”

Louis nods enthusiastically. “That’s perfect, thank you mum.”

“No funny business. I’ll be patrolling.”

Louis makes an X over his heart and smoothes the bedspread where he’d wrinkled it. He notices these things, more, hanging out around Harry. It’s odd; he doesn’t mind it. “No funny business.”

“I love you, Boo. Sleep well.” 

*

The pull-out in the living room is creaky and ancient; its joints protest fiercely as he and Harry wrangle it out onto the floor, threatening a few times to catch their fingers between the sharp metal. Still, they make it work, and Louis fetches as many blankets as he can find from around the house and all the pillows from his room. He puts his hands on his hips when they stand back to survey their work; rather nest-like, but it’ll do.

“What’d your mum want to talk about?” Harry murmurs once they’re in bed—one of the mattress’ springs is digging into Louis’ ribs, but it’s not much better in any of the other positions they’ve tried, so he just snuggles deeper into Harry and breathes in the soft sandalwood scent of him. 

“Just wanted to catch up,” he says into Harry’s bare shoulder. “She really does like you, by the way.”

He can practically see—no,  _ feel,  _ in the way the air molecules shift—Harry grin wide and lovely. “I’m glad,” he says, squirming a bit to get closer to Louis. “Your family are lovely.” He pauses. “Your sister may have threatened to castrate me.”

“Ah, well, you know. Teenage girls.”

Harry sniggers. “Hey, don’t be dismissive. I thought it was nice, that your sisters like you so much.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “They’re great kids. I’m really lucky.”

“They are, too.”

Louis snorts and doesn’t reply except to nip at Harry’s skin a little, tasting salt. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry blurts, after a few moments of silence and stillness. He can probably feel the way Louis’ muscles stiffen, and nudges his head back a little in response, a little gesture of comfort.

“Let’s have it, then.”

“Do you—does your mum, um, know you still…” He trails off, and Louis considers playing dumb, but the room is dark and Harry’s warm and honest against him.

“Does she know I’m still, like, weird about food, you mean?” He’d felt her and Harry’s eyes on him during dinner—he still feels a little overfull, and he was considering slipping away to the toilet once Harry fell asleep. He’s still considering it; his stomach is heavy and twisting.

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

Louis considers for a moment. “She worries. It’s not that big a deal, I don’t want her to.”

“But she’s your mum.”

“I know,” Louis says, harsher than he’d meant to. “Sorry. Just…it’s a sore subject. I dunno. Just because she’d want me to tell her doesn’t mean she should. Does that make sense?”

“No, not really,” Harry says quietly, and turns his head to kiss clumsily at Louis’ temple. “We don’t have to talk about it, though. I just…I dunno. She really loves you.”

“I know,” Louis says, tongue feeling heavy and sticking in his mouth. “Thanks.”

The silence that follows feels electric, sparking—there’s something in the air, some way they’re displacing it that feels important. Louis can’t put his finger on it, can’t do much but feel the thumping of his heart.  _ I want to tell you everything,  _ he thinks,  _ I want to know everything I can about you. I want you to know everything about me.  _ They’ve left the television on, playing an old episode of  _ Friends,  _ and the bluish light shifts on Harry’s curls every time the camera angle changes. Someone turns the tap on in the bathroom, and he holds his breath until it stops, and realizes how constricted his breathing is, how sore his ribcage pressed up against Harry’s broad back, which shifts minutely.

Harry brings up their joined hands to brush his lips along Louis’ knuckles. “Thank you for taking care of me today. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Besides, I did a shit job at it.”

“No,” Harry argues, kissing the joints firmly, a little wet. “’m just embarrassed you saw me like that.”

Louis snorts. “I know the feeling.” Hot shame still curls through him every time he remembers that Harry saw that, every time Harry tentatively brings it up or bites his lip when Louis says he’s going to the loo. In an odd (mean) way, he’s relieved Harry’s embarrassed, too, but there’s no way to say that that doesn’t make him sound like an arsehole, so he keeps it to himself and plays with Harry’s fingers. 

It’s nearly twenty minutes before either of them speak again, and Louis is surprised at his own boldness—he has trouble, sometimes, when it’s quiet—and what he says. “I’ll talk to my mum,” he murmurs. “I think there’s counseling at the health centre. I have some pamphlets in my room, I’ll have a look at them when we get back.”

There’s quiet for a long stretch again, and Louis knows Harry’s shifting words through his head; he’s careful with them, much more so than Louis, and it tries his patience but also expands it. He expects it, when they have conversations like this, when Harry’s trying his hardest not to say the wrong thing.

He’s not expecting what Harry says, though, surprising in its simplicity. “I love you,” Harry says, quiet but unmistakable.

Sometimes Louis feels so much that he ends up feeling nothing, hollow from an excess of feeling, almost as if he’s a little bit out of his body. This is one of those times. “I love you too,” he breathes; it feels just like exhaling, natural and restorative, getting out everything he hadn’t realized was building up inside him. “I love you,” he says again, a giggle erupting in his chest, the overwhelmed  _ nothing  _ giving way to giddiness. “I love you.”

Abruptly, Harry turns over—bumping Louis’ elbow a bit—and stares at him for just a moment, eyes wide and sparkling, before kissing him, hard and laughing, murmuring the same words over and over into Louis’ mouth. Their teeth clack together, too much spit in the kiss. It’s lovely, and it goes on for ages.

The creak of a floorboard startles them out of it, and Louis looks over his shoulder to see his mum in her dressing gown, a glass of water in her hand and a knowing look—maybe a little warning—on her face. She smiles after a second, though, and tilts her head towards her room before shuffling away.

When Louis turns back around, Harry’s studying him, a curiously intense expression on his face. “What?” he asks, a little hot under the scrutiny.

Harry looks a while longer. “You’re just really beautiful,” he murmurs eventually, leaning in to peck Louis on the nose. “And I love you.”

_ I’m never going to get tired of hearing that,  _ Louis thinks. Maybe he will, the rational part of him knows. He doesn’t listen to it, just burrows into Harry’s warmth and says it back, his mouth going a little numb as they repeat it, over and over, slurring the words as their eyelids droop and bodies sink into the mattress and closer to each other. Harry’s breaths go long and slow, and Louis listens to them, snaking his palm under Harry’s shirt to feel the steady thump of his heart, strong and constant under his soft skin, and he falls asleep like that, thinking  _ my hands, your hands.  _

*

Later on, he wakes up still wrapped around Harry; he thinks, for a moment, about untangling himself and tiptoeing to the kitchen. He checks his phone whilst he considers—nothing much, really, but he hasn’t read his friends’ twitters thoroughly in a while, and he opens Harry’s after catching up; it’s cryptic and weird, and makes him grin down at the boy wrapped around him, idiosyncratic and sweet and lovely and here, with Louis.

Without thinking, he clicks on Harry’s likes, maybe hoping to uncover another wonderful, unexpected piece of Harry, something to add to his mental scrapbook. 

Instead, three tweets down, he sees Harry’s liked a post by his friend Jamie, whom Louis had met once or twice and liked well enough. 

_ How do people find their soul mate in the first 2 months of college it took me 4 months just to find the administration building. _

And then, below it:

_ @harry_styles it’s rude to like vague passive aggressive tweets about yourself.  _ Harry had liked that one, too. Louis’ teeth dig into his bottom lip.

_ Soulmate.  _ He rolls the word around in his mouth; it feels as though it leaves behind a smooth film on his teeth and gums and tongue, slippery and sticky at the same time, and it soothes the itch in his throat, tunes him in even more keenly to the sounds of Harry’s sleep. He nods off before he realizes he is, still tasting the sweetness of the syllables. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments (feedback especially) hugely appreciated! Thank you so much for reading.  
>   
> [My tumblr.](http://churchrat.tumblr.com)  
> [Rebloggable post for this fic.](http://churchrat.tumblr.com/post/141876286820/fic-you-and-you-are-sure-together-ch-15)


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